YES YES YESSSSS ITS SO GOOD

LIFE IS GOOD WHEN I READ SPENCER REID FICS THAT ARE THIS GOOD.

Sweet echoes of the past

Summary: When the gentle hand of the past becomes the present, it tightens around the ADA's throat, forcing the hidden faces of darkness into the light. Pairing: Spencer reid x lawyer!reader Genre: HURT/comfort wc: 19k! (i know it's long but its a retribution for the wait time) TW: cm canon violence, FEMALE RAGE, kidnapping, discuss of child trafficking and abuse, discuss of domestic violence, vertigo, discuss of drugs and reader's past (talked in part III) gets disclosure! A/N: i support women's rights and women's wrongs. it's supposed to be jesus reid through the whole chapter but i didn't find a pic that would match. not proofread yet. part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

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As the elevator doors slid open, you stepped into the hallway of your apartment complex, exhaustion settling deep in your bones from the lack of sleep over the past few nights.

It had been months since you helped Morgan in Chicago. The determination you had shown—sometimes unnecessarily—and the disclosure of your past to gain Morgan’s trust had made you the BAU’s preferred unofficial legal advisor. Whenever they needed legal assistance—whether it was a warrant, a last-minute consult, or navigating bureaucratic red tape—you were the first person they called. It was never official, never written down anywhere, but the weight of it still lingered, pressing against your already demanding workload.

You weren’t complaining, though—you loved to help. And you would never admit that maybe, just maybe, Reid’s presence was a factor in your willingness to do so.

Ever since that conversation on the jet—the one that had been abruptly cut short when Hotch interrupted—you hadn’t tried to continue it. You had left the seat in front of him, and going back felt… strange. Too obvious? Too desperate? What if he didn’t want to talk? So you didn’t.

Which was incredibly frustrating, because you would have listened to him for hours. Every thought, every opinion, every ridiculous fact he might throw your way.

Still, in that time, you had learned a few things about him. He was brilliant—almost impossibly so. You had overheard him ramble, though never to you, about the most fascinating things: statistical probabilities, obscure historical events, literary references that seemed to live at the tip of his tongue. His mind was like an endless black hole of knowledge, and the more you listened, the more you wanted to be the one he shared it all with. The more you wanted to crawl inside his head and understand everything about him—the books he read, the things he liked, his favorite foods, his favorite things in general. Everything. Anything.

But the more time you spent with him—with the BAU in the middle—the heavier the guilt sat in your stomach. Someone like him, someone that brilliant, wouldn’t turn to drugs because he thought it would be fun or relaxing. Something must have happened. Something bad. And instead of reaching out, instead of trying to talk to him like a normal person, you had freaked out. You had gotten mad. You had acted on impulse—flushing his drugs, shoving a card with a number into his hands without even checking if he understood what it meant.

You had been a monster.

And you didn’t know if there was any way to fix it. 

Anyway… you tried not to go down that road too often. Your impulsiveness wasn’t entirely your fault—though if Dr. Fitzgerald were here, she'd make sure you took responsibility for your actions.

Still, Reid didn’t seem to hate you or anything. If anything, he was almost… friendly. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he was wary of you—of what you could do, of what you could become.

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

One that would take your mind off him, off your spiraling self-doubt.

Though, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d probably just end up thinking about the major case that had landed on your desk months ago.

At first, it seemed like a straightforward prostitution case—three men arrested for running a ring. But things took a darker turn when financial records revealed suspicious transactions, and lists of names and ages were hidden under the guise of real estate properties.

On paper, they appeared to be children and teenagers. But no bodies were found. None of the rescued individuals were underage, and every single one of them insisted they hadn’t been forced into anything.

You had call transcripts connecting D.C. to Virginia, Maryland, and even Baltimore, but they weren’t enough to prove people were being trafficked and sold. You didn’t even have a confirmed transportation route. With the evidence you had, the harshest sentence you could secure was 20 years—at best.

That wasn’t good enough.

You and Austin had been working non-stop, digging for anything that could reopen the case. The police had committed a dumb mistake, totally unintentional, and blamed it on a rookie officer. 

You weren’t so sure.

The trial date was still a month and a half away, and if you didn’t find enough evidence to charge them under RICO, you’d be forced to fight for every minor charge you could throw at them.

It was a high-profile case. You knew that. Your boss knew that. Your very proud—but slightly concerned—parents knew that. Soon, the press would probably know that too.

Did the pressure affect you? Maybe. It added weight to your shoulders, sure, but nothing compared to the pressure you put on yourself.

As you reached your door and unlocked it, the usual sense of ease and relaxation never came. Your body knew it wasn’t safe yet.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Coincidence. Paranoia. Your mind playing tricks on you after digging too deep into something dangerous.

But then, the little things started adding up.

The unsettling feeling of being watched, the man you were almost certain had followed you during your morning run. Papers on your desk shifted just enough to make you second-guess yourself. A black car parked across the street, there one day, gone the next—then back again.

You were methodical. Filed the complaints, knowing full well they'd be ignored. But you did it anyway. It was something to fall back on—a formality, a way to say you tried.

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

The silence, thicker than usual. The stillness in the air as if it were holding its breath.

Something incredible happens to the brain after it experiences trauma. The amygdala heightens the sensibility to danger helping recognize and avoid potentially harmful situations in the future. It can also enhance emotional resilience—some people develop a stronger sense of intuition, quicker reaction times, and a greater ability to read social cues.

Your bag hit the rack. Your coat slipped off your shoulders, but you didn’t move—didn’t breathe—until you saw it.

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

Scattered across the floor, the counters, the table—spilling from the cabinets, tumbling from the couch, everywhere.

Your skin prickled. Your stomach twisted. You didn't want to follow the trail, but your feet moved anyway, step by step, against every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Your breath came shallow. The air felt thick. Too sweet. Sickly.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

Piled high, spilling over the edges of the counter, the table, the chairs. The sheer amount of it—obscene, suffocating, grotesque. Like a tide that had rushed in and drowned the room in sugar-coated horror.

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

A candy wrapper crinkled. Your body jerked—but you hadn’t moved. Had you?

You looked down. Your hand. Your fingers, clenched so tightly around something that the foil had crushed against your palm.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t pick anything up.

You swallowed, throat dry. Then you saw it. Amidst the mess, perched at the very top of an overflowing heap.

A folded note.

The candy was pressing in, the sweet artificial scent clogging your throat.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your vision blurred. The room felt smaller, pressing in, squeezing, pulling you back—back to the days when candy was more than just candy. When it meant something else. Something worse.

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You weren’t breathing. You couldn’t breathe.

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

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The night was settling over the city as the bullpen slowly emptied. The BAU had just wrapped up a case in Louisiana, and exhaustion lingered in the air, each agent buried in their own work.

Spencer wasn’t paying much attention until Morgan’s phone rang.

“What's up, Woody?”

That caught his ear. They usually called you. Not the other way around.

A flicker of jealousy sparked—irrational, unwanted, but there. Morgan had the privilege of calling you by your nickname, not just your name, like it was second nature. Like it meant something.

But that flicker died the second Morgan’s posture shifted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's going on? You have to bre—”

Whoever was on the other end cut him off. Morgan sat up straighter, his brow furrowing.

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

Morgan nodded sharply, already reaching for his jacket. “I'll be there in ten. Is she okay?”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest. You.

Something was wrong.

Reid was on his feet before he even realized it, trailing Morgan as he grabbed Prentiss’s arm on the way out.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice tighter than he intended.

Morgan didn’t answer right away. He was moving too fast.

That only made the knot in Reid’s stomach tighten.

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Morgan's knocking on your door was frantic, sharp raps against the wood that barely left room for a pause. Behind him, Prentiss and Reid stood tense, their eyes flicking toward the door, waiting.

Inside, Austin peered through the peephole before unlocking it, swinging the door open without hesitation.

“I got her to take a shower,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. His voice was steady, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

The apartment felt wrong.

Reid stepped inside, his gaze immediately scanning the space. The lights were on, but there was an eerie stillness, a weight hanging in the air. The scent of something sharp—maybe soap, maybe something harsher—lingered.

Morgan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What the hell happened?”

Austin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked toward the hallway, where the faint sound of running water could be heard. “Someone broke in during the day”. 

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. In the middle of the aisle sat a large garbage bag, its top loosely tied. Austin pulled it open, revealing an unsettling sight—piles of candy, an overwhelming amount. He reached inside, pulled out a small card, and handed it to Morgan.

“This was scattered all over the place,” Austin said, nodding toward the bag. “And this was left with it.”

Morgan’s eyes scanned the card, his expression darkening. He turned it over, glancing at Austin, waiting for an explanation.

Austin’s voice was steady but clipped. “Dr. C,” he said, the name alone carrying weight. “It stands for Dr. Calloway.”

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

Spencer turned at the sound of your voice. You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long, fluffy white robe, your damp hair clinging to your shoulders. The only skin visible was the curve of your neck, the length of your forearms, and a glimpse of your legs beneath the hem. You clutched the robe tightly against your chest, as if trying to shield yourself—not just from the cold, but from the lingering presence of what had invaded your space.

“He used to give those… a lot of them, before and after he—” Your voice stuttered, catching on the words, unable to finish. 

Spencer’s gaze flickered to the kitchen, then back to you, the weight of your words settling heavily. Then, he noticed it—the raw redness of your skin. Even from across the room, he could see the angry patches where you had scrubbed too hard, as if trying to wash away something that wouldn’t come off.

You cleared your throat as best as you could. “What did the cameras show?” Your voice was low, raspy, as if it hurt to speak.

Spencer barely registered the words. All he could focus on was your eyes—wide, searching, and for the first time, so… small. The sharp edges of your presence were still there, but instead of the formidable woman he knew, you looked like a child—a scared one, cornered with no way out.

Austin sighed, his expression unreadable as he chose his words carefully. “The staff said the cameras haven’t been working for about a week.”

Something in you snapped.

“What do you mean they aren’t working?” Your voice rose, trembling with anger. “This place brags about its security system!” You whirled toward the door, fists clenched. “I’m gonna sue them for negligence and breach of contract! They’re going to—”

Austin moved fast, already anticipating your reaction. He caught you before you could storm out, arms locking around your waist as he turned you away from the door.

“You are not going out.” His grip was firm but steady as he spun you to face him, hands settling on your shoulders. His voice softened, but his words struck hard. “You’re losing focus. You’re losing perspective. You’re losing energy.”

It was a mantra he told you every time you were being too impulsive, too reckless, lashing out without thinking. His voice grounded you when you were ready to burn everything down.

You refused to look up—to meet the gazes of Reid, Morgan, or Prentiss. You could already picture their expressions. Judgment at your impulsiveness. Pity at your situation.

You didn’t know which was worse.

“Woody I understand this is a lot for you right now” Aside from Austin, Morgan was the only aware—partially—of what it meant that note. “We can help catch whoever did this okay? We'll take this to the rest of the team.”

You nodded, not being sure if that's what you really wanted. “I-” You couldn't help but stutter while swallowing the knot on your throat you forced yourself to. “He's supposed to be in prison now”

Prentiss began scanning the apartment, checking the corners with a trained eye. She ran a gloved hand over the door frame, inspecting the lock closely before crouching near the handle. “No visible signs of forced entry,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Morgan asked carefully, “Is there any chance he got out?”

The thought of someone like him—a monster—walking free through the streets made you sick. “I’m not sure. His sentence was 20 years, but the charges didn’t exclude parole opportunities.”

“Did they break anything else?” Reid asked, his gaze shifting to the shattered glass on the floor.

You shifted your weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other, at the full display of your anger, shaking your head. “No, I—um… that was me.” He didn’t miss the note of shame in your voice as you spoke. 

“Have you noticed someone following you or watching you, maybe?” Prentiss asked carefully from the entry door. 

You nodded, exhaling shakily. “Yeah, um… on my morning runs and outside the courtroom sometimes. There’s a folder in my desk.”

Without waiting, you walked in toward your office. As they entered, they took in the mess from the case you were working—registers in the floor, files and records pinned in a corkboard, a stark contrast to the rest of your apartment. The mess in here felt intentional, like the chaos inside your head had spilled into the space.

You dropped to your knees in front of the desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. Then, instead of rifling through it, you gripped both sides and yanked it out entirely, setting it aside.

Their eyes followed your movements as you reached down, pressing your fingers against the smooth wood floor until you found what you were looking for. A red folder, hidden beneath the drawer, its worn edges marked with a single sticker that read Austin.

You stood slowly, gripping it tightly before handing it over. “I have copies of every complaint I’ve made over the last couple of months… it’s all in here in case—”

The thought of you leaving proof in case something happened to you made Spencer’s chest tighten. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before he opened the folder.

Inside, neatly stacked yet slightly worn from being handled, were copies of official complaints, incident reports, and personal notes. Dates, locations, descriptions of suspicious figures—some written hastily, others with meticulous detail. 

Before he could say anything, Morgan spoke up. “Do you know if they took anything from here?”

You shook your head. “It looks normal, and if they did take something, I have copies of everything in my office.” You paused for a moment, thinking. “Did you find anything at the hospital?” you asked, turning to Austin.

He shook his head. “They insisted on a warrant, but a nurse said she could help me if I came back tonight.”

A sigh of exhaustion left your lips as Morgan glanced between the two of you. “Then why don’t you just get a warrant?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion.

The question made you tense up.

You and Austin exchanged a wary look before you answered carefully. “We’re conducting an investigation that has to stay off the record.”

“What do you mean ‘has to stay’?” Reid asked, his brows knitting together.

“It’s a case I’m prosecuting, but we think it’s bigger than what’s on paper, and we can’t prove it yet,” you explained, crossing your arms as you stood. “Weeks ago, some evidence was ‘mislabeled’—sat in storage for weeks before anyone realized. The police chalked it up to a clerical mistake, and now they’re insisting on closing it.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, glancing at Austin. “And you think someone did it on purpose?”

Austin nodded. “There’s too many coincidences. Too many people trying to shut this down.”

Morgan nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, we’ll tell the rest of the team about this. It’d be best if you didn’t go out much—stay indoors as much as possible.”

You shook your head immediately, running a hand over your forehead. “I can’t. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a trial.” Your voice was firm, unwavering. You weren’t about to let someone else control your life. Not again.

Reid, who had been silent up until now, felt his mind start running the numbers. He calculated the probabilities of something happening to you if you insisted on going to work—factoring in everything they knew. Your stalker’s escalation pattern, his growing confidence, geographical profiling probabilities based on your work location. The percentage of workplace homicides committed by known aggressors versus strangers. The statistical likelihood of an abduction attempt in broad daylight versus early morning or late evening.

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

The higher the risk, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Rationally, he knew he couldn’t control your choices, but emotionally, the thought of you walking straight into danger made his pulse quicken.

He swallowed and called your name softly. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

“If he’s watching and I don’t go to work, he’ll think he’s in control.” You met Reid’s gaze, and for a moment, the numbers ceased to matter. The statistics, the probabilities—none of it held weight against the quiet determination in your voice. You weren’t demanding, just asking. Asking to hold onto some semblance of control over your own reality.

Austin, who had promised long ago to stand by your side, spoke up. “The courtroom and the D.A.’s office are always packed with officers. Plus, if we escort her, he’ll see us and maybe back off.”

Or get even angrier, Reid thought. The probability of escalation was high—too high—but when he looked at you, at the way you squared your tense shoulders despite the fear you were barely keeping at bay, he knew you already understood the risk. You were scared, that much was obvious. But you refused to let that fear dictate your actions. And maybe that terrified him more than any statistic ever could.

Prentiss re-entered the room, her gloved hands brushing against the doorframe. “The lock wasn’t forced, but the scratches on the latch suggest someone picked it.” She gestured toward the window. “And there are faint scuff marks on the sill, like someone checked it as a secondary entry point.”

You nodded. "So it's not safe for me to stay here, is it?" Even if it was, you weren’t sure you’d ever feel safe here again.

Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss exchanged hesitant glances. Eventually, Morgan let out a deep breath, looking at you with concern. "We can set up surveillance outside, keep a close watch. But you need to think about what you want, too. If you don’t feel safe here, we’ll figure something out."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you. Spencer could see it in your eyes, and it ached him to realize that you didn’t feel safe in your own home. 

Austin noticed the hesitation too and, without another word, made the decision for you. “Fix a bag with what you need. If you forget something, we can come back together, you are staying at my place.” he said, his voice steady and firm.

You nodded slowly, the practicality of the suggestion grounding you, but the knot in your stomach tightened. The idea of leaving felt like a step further into something you couldn’t control, but at least it was a step toward safety—toward some semblance of normalcy.

As you turned toward your bedroom, you felt a flicker of gratitude for Austin’s unwavering presence. Spencer’s gaze followed you, his concern etched deep into his features, but he remained silent, understanding that you needed space to process it all.

As they were walking out of your office, something caught Reid’s attention—a small yellow post-it note buried among the clutter. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable, but the quote stood out:

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's."

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

Almost reaching your bedroom, you suddenly froze. A realization hit you like a punch to the gut. Someone had been sending you baskets of candy and chocolate for months—always without a card. You had dismissed it every time, taking them to the park to share with the kids. The kids.

“Austin!” you called out, horror tightening your throat.

He was by your side in an instant. “What? What is it?”

“The c-candy… we have to—”

“I’m getting rid of all of it, don’t worry,” he said, grabbing your trembling hands.

“No! You don’t understand.” You shook your head frantically. “You have to test them. See if they were spiked or something.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded, his grip on your hands tightening.

“I’ll call your dad, tell him to get them tested first thing in the morning,” he reassured you.

"Tested how? Why?" Spencer asked, his sharp gaze flicking between you and Austin, picking up on every detail—the stiffness in your posture, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists. The horror in your eyes.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You should have had an answer, a perfectly structured explanation. But your mind wasn’t cooperating. The words tangled, stuck somewhere between logic and memory. If you said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, then—

Austin moved, getting you into your bedroom before you could even try to force something out.

"Sit down," he said, his voice softer now but edged with quiet urgency. "Take a breath, and when you feel ready, pack a bag."

He stepped out, finally giving you a moment of silence. Outside, he joined Morgan and Prentiss, their conversation hushed but focused as they mapped out their next move.

Ten minutes later, they had a plan—Austin would relay all necessary information about you to Garcia and JJ. But Spencer wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was elsewhere, caught on you and how you were holding up. He didn’t want to intrude, not while Morgan and Prentiss were deep in discussion, but his gaze kept drifting to your door.

Slowly, he approached, noticing it was slightly ajar. The dim light from inside spilled into the hallway, offering him a glimpse of your space—neat, controlled, yet somehow fragile. He hesitated, then knocked softly, calling your name.

No answer.

A flicker of unease tightened his chest. He knew you needed space, but silence had never felt so heavy. Pushing past his hesitation, he stepped inside.

You were curled up on the window seat, dressed in loose black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. The window was half-open, a faint cold breeze stirring the fabric of the curtains, cooling your senses down. Your back was turned to him, your hand moving absently over the soft fur of a gray cat curled against your thigh.

Reid hesitated, watching you for a moment. There was something fragile about the way you sat there, staring out at the night. The weight of the evening still clung to you, but the cat’s quiet presence seemed to ground you—if only just.

He took a careful step forward. “Hey,” he said gently.

He startled you, making you jump clumsily in the seat. The sudden movement spooked the stray cat perched on the windowsill, its fur bristling as it let out a sharp hiss. In its panic, it lashed out, claws swiping against the back of your hand before bolting.

You flinched, instinctively pulling your hand close to your chest as the cat leapt from the ledge and disappeared into the night. A bright line of red was already forming where its claws had caught you.

“I’m sorry, I—” he started, but you quickly cut him off.

“It’s okay. I didn’t hear you coming.” Your voice was quiet but gentle, like you didn’t want him to feel bad for it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say—unsure of how to reach you through whatever you were going through. Finally, he settled on the only thing that came to mind. “What’s its name?”

That earned him a small, tired smile, and for a brief moment, he thought he might have done something right. “Um—he sorta came with the place,” you admitted, glancing back at the empty windowsill. “I just call him Stray.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You named a stray cat ‘Stray’?” His voice held a hint of humor, soft but genuine.

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread in your chest at the sound of it. “Yeah…” you replied with a lighter tone. “He owns up to his name.” You raised your right hand a little, showing him the long scratch on the back of it, as if to prove it.

He pressed his lips together, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. “Sorry again,” he muttered, his voice soft.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s fine, he just got scared.” You glanced back toward the window where the cat was tentatively returning. You placed your hand a few inches away from him, watching as the stray slowly approached. It only took a second before he leaned against your hand, purring softly and licking the scratch he had done, as if he felt guilty and was apologizing.

“He’s been coming around since I first moved in years ago,” you said, your voice gentle as you scratched the back of the cat’s ears, causing it to purr louder. “It took me an entire year, some food, and a lot of scratches and patience to get him this comfortable.”

You smiled a little at the softness of the moment, but the warmth faded just as quickly as it came. The reality of it all crashed back down on you—this place you called home had been invaded, your sense of security stolen. Again.

“I have to move out right?” the thought of leaving Stray alone and without food pained you. 

Spencer saw the shift in your expression at his nod, the way your shoulders sagged and your eyes darkened with exhaustion. He hated that look on your face, hated the weight of it. Desperate to pull you away from the spiraling thoughts, he let his gaze sweep across the room, searching for something—anything—to get you out of it. 

“Did you go to Harvard?” Reid asked, his eyes landing on a framed picture sitting on the bookshelf.

In the photo, a younger version of you stood between your parents, your diploma in hand. Your mother held a crimson banner with the university’s name in gold, while your father wore a red sweater emblazoned with a bold yellow ‘H.’

“Yeah. Law school. Though I look awful in those pictures,” you admitted.

You were 18 in them, and in your opinion, it wasn’t your best moment. The smudge eyeliner and dark clothes—an attempt to make yourself look unapproachable—clashed awkwardly with the family-intended picture. Besides, college wasn’t exactly a time you looked back on fondly.

Thankfully, you had outgrown the phase of needing to prove yourself. Sort of.

Reid, however, thought you looked pretty. Despite the heavy makeup that aged you, he could still see the youth in your features—the sharp intelligence in your eyes, the quiet determination. He wanted to ask more. At what age had you graduated high school? How had your teenage years in college been? Were they anything like his—lonely, spent buried in books?

You stood from the window seat, moving to zip up the bag you had packed for the next few days at Austin’s. Your gaze flickered to the closet, pausing briefly on the dress hanging behind the door.

Prentiss knocked lightly before stepping in with a small smile. “Ready to go?” Her eyes landed on the dress. “Oh, that’s fancy.”

It was. The dark purple silk draped elegantly, the halter top flattering yet professional, the long skirt flowing with just the right amount of sophistication. You and your mom had picked it out together for an important dinner—she had insisted you needed something that made you feel beautiful.

You exhaled, brushing a hand over the fabric. “Yeah… It was for a work dinner. But I guess I finally found the perfect excuse not to go.”

You grabbed the bag and walked out of the room, Spencer and Prentiss leading the way. With one last glance over your shoulder, you reached for the light switch, casting the space into darkness before quietly closing the door behind you.

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Walking into the bullpen of the BAU felt like stepping into a pressure chamber—every glance, every hushed conversation carrying the weight of unspoken questions. You weren’t just another visitor; you were the case. The reason for the extra tension in the air. 

Morgan led the way, having picked you and Austin up for security reasons—Austin’s bike wasn’t exactly the safest option. The briefing room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken concern. You tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your back, the telltale sign of exhaustion clawing at you. Sleep had been scarce last night, and the extra-bitter coffee in your hand was doing little to keep you grounded.

Everyone was already there when the three of you arrived. Their eyes flicked toward you, subtle yet piercing, like they could see right through you. You hated this feeling—vulnerability wrapping itself around you like a second skin. Have you ever walked into a room and felt like a lamb walking straight to the slaughter? You swallowed the knot in your throat and forced out the proper good mornings, your voice steadier than you expected.

Some habits never leave you. Like the art of avoiding physical touch—something you’d perfected in your teenage years. Always keeping your hands full, whether with books, files, or a cup of coffee. A strategic shield, paired with an apologetic smile when someone offered their hand, as if to say, Oh, I’d shake, but my hands are full. Sorry. Every movement calculated, arbitrarily staged, yet second nature by now.

And yes you could perfectly just say no to a simple handshake but playing against the rules wouldn't have gotten you anywhere. 

You stayed at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, trying to avoid the pitying looks from the team. JJ began explaining how, over the last few months, you had been stalked—someone had followed your routine, watching your every move.

Images appeared on the screen, displaying your apartment filled with candy. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you quickly averted your eyes, staring out toward the bullpen instead. JJ continued, explaining how the situation was even more concerning given that your personal address wasn’t listed in any public records—precautions you had taken after past incidents.

“There was a note left behind,” she said, pressing a button to reveal a close-up of the paper on the screen. The message was short but chilling.

“‘Dr. C.’” JJ read aloud. “It stands for Doctor Calloway.”

Garcia chimed in, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Doctor Dean Calloway is a convicted felon. Over twenty years ago, he and his wife, Michelle Calloway, ran a foster home. He was sentenced to 30 years in prison for child neglect and public assistance fraud in Wallens Ridge State Prison.” 

The picture of him on the TV makes your legs go weak. His cold, piercing eyes—the same ones that had once looked at you with a twisted, possessive kind of love—make you feel like you want to rip your skin off, just to escape the memory of them.

Hotch frowned at the pictures. “And what’s the significance of the candy?”

You cleared your throat, knowing this was an important detail you had to clarify. “Calloway was—is—a child molester.”

The silence that settled over the room was suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a weight.

“He used to call me like that and drug me on the nights he—” Your voice wavered, threatening to crack, but you forced yourself to continue. “I never knew how or with what. All I know is that he made me eat thousands of those, maybe to hide the taste of whatever he was using.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of their eyes pressing against you, seeing through the cracks you tried so hard to keep together.

“His license was revoked after his conviction,” you added, your tone carefully measured, though your hands clenched at your sides, wanting to stop the trembling. “And I never had enough proof to go after him.”

A heavy silence followed, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. The team exchanged glances—understanding, anger, maybe even guilt for not realizing sooner. You weren’t sure which was worse.

Hotch was the first to break the silence. His voice was steady but edged with something close to anger. “If he’s been sending you these messages, then he’s either out or has someone on the outside working for him.”

Reid shifted on his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Calloway was sentenced to thirty years. Even with good behavior, he shouldn’t be out yet.”

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her usual warmth replaced by urgency. “Apparently, Wallens Ridge had a fault in their security system three days ago, making it really easy for a whole lot of very bad people to escape.”

“Three days ago?” Morgan’s voice was incredulous. “The stalking’s been going on for almost two months. Why didn’t we hear about this sooner?”

“They say they’re not sure who specifically got out,” Garcia responded, her fingers pausing over the keys. “The place is huge, so they’re still updating the fugitives list.”

“I never told anyone about the candy,” you said, your voice thick with the weight of the revelation. “He’s the only one who could’ve known about that.” Your mind raced, trying to piece together any possible logical explanation.

“Unless he has someone on the outside, someone who’s been following you,” Rossi suggested, and his words made your skin feel clammy. 

“Or there are two different stalkers,” Austin added, his gaze focused on you. “It wouldn’t be the first time a case backfired, especially if people have been watching you for other reasons.”

“So, we’re talking about two UnSubs?” Prentiss asked, her brow furrowing in thought.

You nodded slowly, the weight of the situation sinking in deeper. “It’s a high-stakes case. A lot of powerful people are expecting it to be closed and moved to trial as soon as possible. If something goes wrong…” You trailed off, feeling the invisible pressure of it all.

Hotch looked at you, his gaze intense and almost protective. “What kind of case is it?.”

You placed the file down on the table, your fingers brushing over it as you tried to keep your voice steady, but the weight of everything pressing down on you made it hard. You could feel the room’s tension shift, everyone leaning in, focused on your every word.

“The police investigated what on paper are prostitution houses,” you continued, your tone serious, “leading to the arrest of four men—two of them were real estate agents as a cover-up.” You paused for a moment, glancing at the file again, then at the faces of your team, your voice steadying as you pressed on. “All the victims we managed to rescue are adults who claim they weren’t being exploited. But when I went to check the financial records of these real estate agents, I found a ton of transactions tied to a series of properties they owned. The weird part? It was incredibly difficult to get access to the catalogue of properties, and none of them have a real, tangible address.” 

"At first, I didn’t think much of it, but then I realized—each property is actually a person they’re selling. It’s a human catalogue disguised as real estate listings." You knew you probably sounded crazy, but recognizing patterns and hidden meanings had always been how you survived.

"If a property is listed for rent, it’s prostitution. If it’s for sale only, it’s trafficking. A single-story house means the victim is a minor, while two or more floors likely indicate an adult. A garage means it’s a girl, no garage means it’s a boy. I think a porch signifies plastic surgery. And the descriptions of the walls and floors? They match the victim’s physical characteristics."

You laid out the pictures from the folder across the table, arranging them with a methodical precision. "These are the rescued victims. All of them are adults, former prostitutes, found in houses packed with bedrooms."

Then, you placed photos of houses and their corresponding descriptions beneath each victim’s picture. "Look at this one. Dark skin, dark eyes. And this house? Walnut floors, two stories, only available for rent, and it has a garage." You tapped the listing with growing certainty. "They aren’t selling homes. They’re selling people."

The team exchanged looks, some curious, others frowning with concern. Morgan was the first to speak. "How certain are you about this?"

"About 80%. Finding consistent leads has been really difficult," you explained, trying to keep your voice steady.

Hotch leaned forward, his expression sharp. "What does the DA say about all of this?"

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “She… doesn’t know. She’s planning her retirement and wants me to run for her position so I can ‘follow her legacy.’ She thinks this case could secure my election—and she’ll be telling everyone that at the Annual Winter Gala for the District Attorney’s office tonight,” you explained carefully. “If I find proof that the case has crossed state lines, it would automatically fall under the Department of Justice’s jurisdiction, leaving our office completely out of it.”

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

Hotch nodded in agreement. “Garcia can look into this further to see if she uncovers anything else. Meanwhile, the rest of us will split up. JJ, Rossi, and Prentiss will focus on finding Calloway, profiling where he could be hiding, and the other half will stay with you, just in case.”

You hesitated but didn't decline knowing it was the best shot you had. 

“And it would be better if you stayed home,” Hotch said tentatively.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped, barely holding back the venom in your voice. “I have cases to handle and a trial in two hours—I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

He nodded as if he already knew your answer, but still insisted that you not go to the Gala. You didn’t complain; you barely wanted to go anyway.

The thought of staying home, of locking yourself inside like some helpless prey, made your stomach churn. You weren’t a child anymore, weren’t that drugged, defenseless girl he could control. If Calloway showed up, you wouldn’t freeze. You wouldn’t run.

No, you’d put him down like the rabid animal he was.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Going through sexual abuse leaves a deep, lingering sense of desperation. Last night, you scrubbed your skin with everything you had, trying to erase the phantom touch of ghost hands. It never worked, though. The sensation stayed, haunting you no matter how hard you tried to wash it away.

Being a survivor also carries a heavy burden of guilt. You knew, logically, it wasn’t your fault—what happened to you wasn’t something you could control. But the aftermath, the side effects of being drugged nearly every night, still clung to you, refusing to let you forget.

The familiar hallways of the DA’s office offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a place where you could breathe a little deeper without your chest aching so badly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Fresh from the courtroom, you felt like you finally had some semblance of control over your life—at least for a little while, without the suffocating presence of a stalker lurking in the shadows. Morgan and Reid had been accompanying you all day, which was both mildly embarrassing and infuriating. The idea of people thinking you needed babysitters made your skin crawl.

On the other hand, Spencer couldn’t have been more eager to stay by your side. He hated the circumstances, hated the way you refused to meet his or Morgan’s gaze, but more than anything, he hated the way your hands trembled—no matter how hard you squeezed them together or tried to hide it. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands in his, to offer you something—anything—to anchor you.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like to have your past dissected and laid bare on a table for everyone to see. If just hearing you say Calloway had drugged you had made his stomach twist with sickness, he couldn’t fathom what it had done to you. So if you couldn’t look at him, he understood. He just wished he could hold you instead.

Watching you in court had been mesmerizing. Then again, everything about you captivated him.

Almost at your office, a sharp voice cut through the hallway. “Counselor!”

Spencer immediately tensed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan’s hand instinctively move to his holster.

You turned at the sound, already bracing yourself and recognizing the voice from Defense Attorney Bennet. Just the sight of him made your stomach tighten, and the way your jaw tensed and your nose twitched slightly—a near-wince before you masked it—didn’t go unnoticed by Reid.

Bennet strolled toward you with his usual smugness, and you barely resisted the urge to take a step back.

“No deal.” Your voice was flat, dismissive. His client had been arrested for attempted murder—of his own wife, in front of their children. The woman had come to you, fear in her eyes, begging you to make sure he wouldn’t get out and try to hurt her again.

Bennet didn’t seem fazed. “I'm not looking for one. My client isn't guilty.,” he said smoothly, as if that was enough to make you care. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the corners of your lips threatening to curl in distaste. “Your client belongs in a pine box... but I will settle for an 8-by-10 cell where he can rot until he dies.”

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Ms. Woodvale. He was under a lot of stress due to his demanding workload, which caused him anxiety and insomnia," he says smoothly, as if that excuse isn’t absolutely ridiculous.

You catch a glimpse of Morgan and Reid stepping into your office. Exhaling sharply, already fed up, you fix him with a cold stare. "I have anxiety and insomnia. I don’t go around shooting people."

You turned on your heel and got inside your office, you shut the door with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry for th—” A yawn caught you off guard, cutting off your words as you let your forehead rest against the cool surface of the door. 

"Do you want some coffee?" Spencer offered, his voice so gentle that, for a moment, your shoulders eased ever so slightly.

"Uh—yeah, thank you," you said, watching as he moved toward the small table where the machine sat. Then, quickly, before he could pour, you added, "No sugar, please."

The thought of sweetness on your tongue made your stomach twist. On a normal day, you couldn't stand it. But today? Today, when the fact that Calloway was still out there felt like a breath against the back of your neck? You weren’t willing to find out how you’d react.

Across the room, Spencer nodded, his fingers brushing over the sugar packets before he left them untouched. He finally understood. The incident in Chicago, the way you had recoiled, the way you'd run. He clung to every fragment of insight he could gather from you, anything that wasn’t in a file.

Caleb, Molly’s temporary replacement, entered your office without knocking, looking harried—like he’d just remembered something important, or more likely, forgotten something crucial—Caleb nearly tripped over himself as he spotted you.

"Miss Woodvale," he started, already sounding defensive, "I was just about to—"

You didn’t have the patience. With a sigh, you reached into your bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, pressing it into his hands.

"I need two things, and I need them before midnight," you said, your tone clipped. "First, look up any prior convictions for Daniel Rogers—everything, even sealed records if you can access them. Second, type up a subpoena for the evidence request I noted down."

Caleb blinked at the paper, then back at you. "A subpoena? Like… now?"

You leveled him with a stare. "Yes, Caleb. Now. Before I have to argue in court for evidence I should already have."

"Right! Right. On it." He gripped the paper like it might disappear from his hands.

"Caleb," you added before he could rush off. He turned back, looking hopeful.

"Sign it under my name before filing. Properly."

"Of course! Totally on it."

You watched him scurry away and exhaled sharply. You should’ve just done it yourself.

Spencer handed you the cup of coffee, and the brief touch of his fingers against yours sent a small tingle through your skin—just enough to take the edge off, to let you breathe a little easier.

"Where's your usual girl?" Morgan asked, nodding toward the door.

"Molly's on maternity leave. She’s got three weeks left." You sighed. Three weeks with someone incompetent felt like thirty years.

Morgan’s phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, leaving you alone with Reid. Ignoring the nerves creeping up your spine at the thought, you turned and made your way to the back of your office. As you pushed the door open, the room beyond was revealed—a chaotic mess, not unlike the study in your apartment.

He followed you inside, and for the first time, the sight of the mess actually embarrassed you. You shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes scanning the board. His brows furrowed. “Why is the map unmarked?”

“I—uh—” You took a sip of your coffee, stalling. Admitting this felt ridiculous. “I’m not very good with directions. Or maps in general… I was going to ask Austin for help, but I always forget.” You hated how left and right sometimes blended together in your head, how frustrating and embarrassing it was.

“Let me do it,” he offered.

Your first instinct was to refuse, but he stepped closer before you could protest. “I do the geographical profiles for the BAU. I’m good at reading maps.”

Something about the way he looked at you—puppy eyes, long hair framing his face—made it hard to say no. Or maybe it was just him. And you couldn’t say no to him.

"Those are the directions," you gesture toward the board just as your phone rings. Seeing Austin’s name on the screen, you pick up.

"Good news, Woody. The candy wasn’t spiked, and I doubt the rest of the baskets were either."

A weight you didn’t realize you were holding in your chest suddenly lifts. The thought of someone twisting something as simple as sharing candy—something that once brought you comfort—into a potential nightmare had been unbearable.

You exhale, murmuring a thank you as Austin reassures you they’ll catch him. When you hang up and relay the news to Spencer, he gives you a small smile, his focus still on the map. Then, as he places a thumbtack, something clicks in his mind. 

"How did you get the lab to run the test that fast?" he asks, glancing over at you. The average turnaround time for something like that would usually be at least a couple of days, even for a small lab.

You shrug. "My dad’s a chemist. He runs a lab, so... it wasn’t hard to get him to push a few tests through."

The irony isn’t lost on you—how your birth parents had also run a lab, except theirs was a meth lab. And now, you’d been raised by someone who ran a legitimate one. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Another piece of you gets stored forever, engraved in Spencer’s mind, and the way you’re being so… casual with him makes his chest warm.

“I’m sorry you can’t go to that party tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to get pampered around by my boss, making promises on my behalf.” You lean against the wall.

“Yeah, social environments aren’t my thing either,” he says, placing the last thumbtack on the map. “So, you don’t want to be the DA?”

You take a second to think. “I know it’s a big position, and it would be great for my career. My boss is always saying the tabloids would go crazy—she can already see the headlines with my name on it. And I know it opens a lot of doors, but…” You trail off. “It comes with things I don’t want to do, like playing politics. I’m not interested in that. I’d barely even step foot in a courtroom, and I want to help people. Bring closure. Maybe even some peace, if I can.”

Spencer watches you as you speak with such passion. For a moment, your eyes don’t look as haunted. Your words seem to carry a weight he’s never seen before, and the strand of hair falling over your face is so tempting for him to tuck behind your ear. It’s as if a magnetic force is pulling him closer. 

He smiles at you, opening his mouth to respond, but his phone rings. “I got something for you about our secret mission,” says Garcia on the other line when he picks up and puts her on speaker.

“So, I tracked the license plate from the arrested man. Stumbled upon something—two of them always went periodically to a location where there are no cameras around. It’s pretty far, almost at the border with Maryland,” Garcia continues.

“Is there anything over there?” you ask, feeling a slight sense of urgency.

“It’s a pretty abandoned area, but from a street view program, apparently, there’s a warehouse over the Cicero street,” she replies. “I sent you the location.”

Spencer thanks her, but before he hangs up, Garcia adds, “Rossi picked up Morgan from there. A street camera caught someone who looks like Calloway near the Capitol.”

Your breath catches in your chest for a moment as the weight of her words sink in. You exhale slowly, Spencer hangs up and you speak urgently. “We have to go check that warehouse.”

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

He nods, but the hesitation doesn’t leave his eyes. He doesn’t want to go alone without the team, but something shifts when he notices the tremor in your hand. It was slightly worse than before, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he decided not to mention it, knowing that pushing you away now wouldn't help.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Arriving at the warehouse, you felt anticipation creeping through your bones, an almost electric tension settling in your chest. You were close—so close that whatever detail had been slipping through your fingers had to be right in front of you.

The aged wooden floor groaned beneath your boots, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the space. Dust floated in the slanted beams of light filtering through broken windows, and the air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal.

If Spencer cursed, he would have done it the moment you didn’t wait for him to clear the area first. Instead, he sprinted to your side, his breath sharp as he yanked his gun from his holster, his fingers tightening around the grip.

The place had two floors, surrounded by nothing but dry, brittle trees. Looking back, you wished you could say you had been cautious, but the events of the day had started to numb your judgment. There was no hesitation when the door didn’t budge—you shoved your shoulder against it without a second thought.

Spencer inhaled sharply behind you, his voice cutting through the stagnant air.

He called your name as a warning, his tone edged with unease. And if you had time for waiting you would've picked on the hint of fear in his voice. 

The door gave in, and you stepped inside immediately. The interior was somehow worse than the outside—humidity clung to the rotting wood, the scent of decay thick in the air. The space was lined with tiny bedrooms, each one filled with small beds. The sight made your stomach turn. You didn’t need to imagine what had happened here; the walls practically whispered it.

“You go check upstairs, I’ll check here,” you said, already moving.

“We should wait for backup.” Spencer's voice was firm, his grip on his gun tightening.

"This place is abandoned," you countered, dismissing his concern before he could argue further. He sent Garcia a quick message as you moved through the rooms quickly—most were the same, two beds, a small closet, nothing significant.

Until the last room.

It was different. A desk sat by a small, cracked window, standing out among the neglect. You crossed the room immediately, opening every drawer, rifling through them with practiced efficiency. But there wasn’t much. Loose papers. A few pens. Dust coating the insides.

Then, just as you were about to move on—something.

Tucked in the very back of the bottom drawer. A flash drive.

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

Your pulse slammed into overdrive. Every muscle tensed, locking you in place for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see a blue shadow move between the trees, fast, deliberate. They had something in their hand. They took something from the desk.

And then your body moved before your mind could catch up. You bolted.

The cold air burned your throat as you tore through the doorway, barely registering Spencer shouting your name behind you. The forest was a blur—branches whipping past, the earth uneven beneath your feet, every instinct screaming at you to keep going, keep your eyes locked on the figure ahead. 

Then it hit.

A wave of vertigo crashed into you like a freight train when you were jumping off a rock.

The world lurched.

Trees stretched and twisted, the ground tilting violently beneath you. Your stomach turned, and suddenly there was no up, no down—just a sickening pull as your balance shattered.

Your foot slipped.

You didn’t fall so much as collapse, legs giving out as the world spun in a dizzying, nauseating spiral. Your shoulder slammed into the dirt first, then your head, the impact ringing through your skull like a gunshot making you groan in frustration and dizziness. 

Distantly, you could still hear Spencer yelling. His voice was closer now, urgent, frantic.

You tried to push yourself up, but the world wouldn’t stop moving. The trees swayed, the ground rolled beneath you, and the sickening weight of disorientation kept you pinned where you fell.

The sirens screamed in the distance, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in your ears. The earth tilted beneath you as you tried to push yourself up, twigs and dirt digging into your scraped palms. 

Right now, Spencer could only see himself in you—that reckless, desperate version of himself from two years ago. The one who told JJ they didn’t have time to wait. The one who ended up at the mercy of Tobias Hankel. Right now, those magnets—the ones that should have drawn you together—were mirroring instead. And magnets that mirror don’t attract. They repel.

The nausea surged again, your stomach twisting violently as you heard Spencer’s footsteps closing in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

His voice, along with some police sirens, cut through the ringing in your ears, sharp and edged with frustration, but you could barely focus on it. The ground felt unsteady beneath you, as if the earth itself was shifting. You blinked hard, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure in your skull only worsened.

Spencer didn’t notice—didn’t see the way your fingers dug into the dirt just to keep yourself upright. All he saw was a reckless choice, the same mistake he had made, playing out all over again. And it terrified him.

"I almost had him!" you shot back, breathless, the words slurring slightly as the world swayed again when you stood up again.

"You ran off alone!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “You have no idea of the hundred things that can happen when you go alone in the field! You are not even an agent or a police officer!”

The words hit like a whip, laced with something deeper than anger—fear. But your head was spinning too much to fire back. The ringing in your ears pulsed in and out like waves crashing over you, swallowing his words before you could fully process them.

You thought you saw another figure moving toward you—just a flicker of motion in your blurred vision, a shadow against the trees. The ringing in your ears drowned out everything else, making Spencer’s voice feel distant, like he was speaking through water.

“Woody!”

Morgan’s voice cut through the static, sharp and urgent. You barely registered the moment he reached you—his presence was solid, grounding—but the nausea clawed at your stomach, threatening to pull you under again.

“Someone—a blue jacket was—” you tried, but the words barely scraped past your throat, your breathing uneven, shallow. You forced yourself to stay upright, to push through the dizziness, but Morgan’s hands were already on you, steadying, his gaze scanning your face with concern.

“They… they took something from the house. I don’t kn—” Your voice broke off as another wave of vertigo surged through you.

Morgan’s grip tightened, firm but not harsh. “You don’t look good, Woody. Sit down before you fall down.” He guided you down against a tree with your knees to your chest. 

“I’m fine, it’s just—this vertigo shit, I—” The lie barely made it past your lips before the ground tilted violently beneath you. You staggered, your vision swam, and this time—there was nothing you could do to stop it. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to stop the nausea clawing up your throat. “I—I just need a second.”

As if he snapped off his frustration. Spencer crouched down in front of you, eyes scanning your face, his own panic shifting into something else. “Just take a deep breathe,” he said, and now it wasn’t frustration in his voice—it was realization. 

You blinked at him, but the edges of your vision were still blurry. You hated this. Hated feeling weak in front of him, hated that your body had betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even as another wave of vertigo made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer wasn’t buying it. And suddenly, he felt so much shame over how he hadn't even helped you out because he’d been so caught up in his own fear, his own anger, that he hadn’t even seen you struggling.

And that scared him just as much as watching you run into danger alone.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Once again in the BAU bullpen, you had finally recovered from the vertigo, knowing it was brought on by stress and anxiety.

While you had been struggling, the rest of the team had sprinted through the woods, searching for the person you saw. JJ was the one who found a crumpled, half-burned document about 50 meters away from the house. As for the figure in the blue jacket—there was still no trace.

The files contained lists of properties, and they were marked with prices. For the looks of it, you sensed they could indicate age or maybe height but you didn't get much opportunity to look into it. As for the flash drive, Garcia had taken it to analyze. 

They had told you that the one man they caught on a street camera thinking it was Calloway was just a false alarm, meaning he was still free, you hated feeling like a prey again.

Austin was crouched in front of your chair, watching you carefully.

"I'm fine. And we both know it’s just because my body doesn’t handle stress well," you muttered, taking a sip of the gatorade he handed you. You were no stranger to vertigo and dizziness—episodes that had come and gone over the years—but this one felt different. More intense, more unsettling. A doctor had once told you, years ago, that it could be a lingering side effect from drug abuse.

"Just eat," he said, opening a paper bag and setting it beside you.

You sighed, grabbing the sandwich but leaving the small cardboard box inside. Breaking the sandwich in half, you offered him a piece, but he shook his head. Rolling your eyes, you spun your desk chair to face JJ instead.

"Want half my sandwich? I’m not going to finish it."

She frowned slightly but quickly answered, "Oh, thank you." Taking a bite, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, this is really good," she said, covering her mouth as she chewed.

Smiling, you took a bite yourself. "My mom’s a chef. She likes to send me food sometimes, and since she knows I like sharing, she always sends extra."

JJ hummed in approval before handing a piece to Prentiss, who had the same reaction. 

Just then, Hotch entered the room with Garcia and Spencer behind him. Garcia grabbed the remote and turned on the TV showing the FBI logo.

“My lovely ducks this flash drive was cripting nightmare. But! as your dear tech colorful genius I got it.” She pressed a button, and a series of documents filled the screen—spreadsheets, names, locations, and timestamps. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay, so this flash drive? A goldmine of incriminating evidence," she said, her tone more serious than usual. "We’re talking organized trafficking orders—detailed lists of victims, complete with coded identifiers, transaction dates, and destinations. But that’s not all."

She clicked to another file, and a map appeared. "These are transport routes—highways, backroads, even rest stops marked as exchange points. Whoever put this together is meticulous. And then, there are these."

Another document popped up. It was a list of addresses.

"Safe houses," Garcia continued. "Not just in DC—there’s here in Virginia, Maryland, Baltimore and a few in Pennsylvania. Meaning, this isn’t some local operation. It’s an entire network."

The room fell silent as everyone processed the weight of what she had just revealed.

The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow exhale as you sank back into the chair. You and Austin exchanged a glance, both of you silently acknowledging the weight of what was in front of you—the information you had been chasing for weeks was finally right there.

In retrospect, it seemed almost absurd—how just three men were possibly going to be convicted for minor felonies, while they and so many others were responsible for running and ruining God knows how many lives.

Hotch’s voice was firm. “We’ll give this to the Head of the Domestic Trafficking Task Force, Andi Swan, to continue with the investigation. They will be communicating with the Department of Justice.”

You nodded slightly, processing the weight of the situation you had been unknowingly tangled in. Austin’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You have to go to the gala for an alibi.”

He was right, and you knew it. Not attending such an important event, coupled with the fact that the office was losing an important case while FBI agents had been seen talking to you, could easily make you a target—marked as a 'snitch.' The irony stung, especially when all you’d been trying to do was uncover the truth.

You turned to face the team. “What about Calloway and the other threats?”

Garcia’s expression softened as she responded. “Wallens Ridge has cleared 75% of the area. They haven’t ruled him out as a fugitive yet.” Her voice took on a pitying tone, one you didn’t want to acknowledge but knew was meant to protect you.

“We’ll protect you,” Morgan added, his voice steady. “The gala will be crowded with security. We’ll drive you there and back, and by tomorrow, we’ll continue to look for him. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, knowing the smart decision was to attend the gala and put on a convincing smile. Austin had told you it was 6 p.m., giving you two hours to get home and be ready by 8.

Hotch assigned Rossi, JJ, and Garcia to keep tracking Calloway, while Morgan and Prentiss would drive you to the event.

Once the team had their tasks, you stood, picking up the brown paper bag before heading toward Spencer’s desk. You placed it on top, glancing toward Garcia’s office, where you’d just seen him disappear. It was a terrible excuse for an apology—‘Sorry for being impulsive and reckless. Here’s a sweet treat.’ But words had never been your strong suit, especially when it came to your feelings.

Time had a cruel way of shifting things. Over two years ago, you had stood in front of another desk, clutching an identical paper bag—only back then, it hadn’t been an apology. It had been his drugs. And you had thrown them away.

Austin was waiting for you. You caught a glimpse of Prentiss flipping through files and swallowed your nerves. You never knew if your difficulty making friends came from feeling like a freak or simply not knowing how to connect.

You hesitated before calling her name. “Uh—could you help me? Maybe? I know you probably have more important things to do, so—”

Prentiss looked up, offering a friendly smile. “No, it’s okay. What do you need help with?”

You shifted awkwardly. “Getting ready? I—I don’t really know how. I mean, I can dress myself, obviously, but—”You exhaled, frustrated at your own fumbling. “I barely know how to do any of that ‘pampering’ stuff.”

Prentiss smirked, grabbing her coat. “Oh, you came to the right person. I’m a diplomat’s daughter—I was practically trained in this.”

You blinked at her, surprised by how quickly she jumped in to help.

She gestured toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s make you look like you belong at this gala.”

Trying not to seem too eager, you followed her. Before stepping in, she quickly told Morgan she’d be driving you and Austin.

A few minutes later Spencer finally emerged from Garcia’s office, barely escaping yet another lecture about overthinking things. His eyes landed on his desk—and the familiar brown paper bag sitting atop it.

Inside was a small cardboard box. And in it—a piece of chocolate cake. 

A flicker of guilt settled in his chest as he stared at the cake. Had he really made you feel like you needed to apologize?

Maybe he felt it even more acutely after taking a bite—sweet, rich, and undeniably good. The kind of thing that made him wonder if he even deserved it. 

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You glance at the reflection in the mirror, taking in the clean, elegant look. The dress falls delicately, the long strips cascading down your back—so stunning, so unlike what you’d usually wear.

“You look good. Don’t overthink it,” Austin’s voice comes from behind you.

“Thanks,” you reply, offering him a faint smile, but it comes out more like a thin line.

Emily had done a great job polishing you up. She even revived the black nail polish you thought was long gone since your college days, using some remover drops. Your hair was styled in an updo, the final touch to a look that felt like someone else entirely.

“Here you go” she says, handing you the long black coat, giving your makeup a final check. It felt strangely nice to feel this... pretty. You knew without her help, you wouldn’t have pulled it off. To be honest, you liked pretty things. You liked makeup, but you just didn’t know how to do it right. And you wanted to have girlfriends, though you weren’t sure what you’d talk about with them. But that didn’t matter, and Emily seemed nice enough to not mind.

“The car’s downstairs. Morgan and Reid will be taking you” she adds. Right. Reid. You nod as you slip the coat on, trying to ignore the unease creeping up on you.

The thought of Reid seeing you like this, this version of yourself that was so different from the usual, made you squirm.

Would he think you looked good? Pretty, even? Why did you care about his opinion? Maybe because you cared about what he thought in general. Maybe because having his attention, even for just five seconds, felt like something sacred. Why would someone with such an incredible mind waste more than five seconds on someone like you?

You didn’t know which thought haunted you the most: the sense of insecurity that came with the fact someone had broken into your place, erasing the feeling of home and comfort you’d hoped for while getting ready, or the look in Spencer’s eyes—the one that made you feel like you’d been stupid.

The elevator doors opened, revealing the lobby, and in front of the glass entrance doors of your apartment complex stood the familiar black SUV. Your stomach churned with nerves.

Spencer’s breath hitched when he saw you, the way the dress fit you so perfectly, so timelessly elegant. If someone had told him you were a duchess or from some aristocratic family, he would have believed them. The way you carried yourself—controlled yet poised, with your head held high and your back straight—was enhanced by the silk of the dress, giving you an almost regal presence.

He got out of the car to help you in, and the rush of warmth that flooded your face instantly banished the winter’s cold. You smiled awkwardly at him, unsure of what to say.

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

“Lookin’ good, mama,” he said, flashing that charming smile of his.

You smiled back at him, relieved, before turning to say goodbye to Prentiss. Spencer gently helped you into the car, making sure the dress didn’t get caught or ruined in the process. You felt the tingle of his hand lingering where it had touched yours, and you couldn’t shake the electric pulse it left behind. 

Slipping into the back seat, you settled in with Austin in the front, relaying the venue’s address to Morgan. Spencer sat beside you, trying to keep his composure. He had to be extra careful not to stumble as the scent of your perfume hit him, wrapping around him like an intoxicating mist. It was all he could do to focus on anything else, the smell of it swirling in his senses and pulling him into a dizzy state he could easily get lost in. 

Throughout the ride, you stared out the window, mentally preparing yourself for the event ahead. You knew you had to play the part—professional, charming, decisive, almost regal if you wanted to make an impression. The problem was, you didn’t want to win that way. You didn’t want to play the political game that came with it.

Looking at Morgan was a reminder that Calloway was out there, and you could let him throw you off. But then your gaze shifted to Reid, and the tightness in your chest made you stutter for a second. His presence had that effect on you, unsettling yet magnetic in the most infuriating yet addicting way.

Your phone rang, pulling you out of your thoughts. You rummaged through your purse and saw it was your office number, making you frown as you picked it up.

“Hello?” you answered doubtfully, everyone was supposed to be at the venue or on their way there by now.

“Miss Woodvale!” Caleb’s voice came through, making you fight the impulse to roll your eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid there’s been a problem.”

You sighed, bracing yourself. Caleb was pretty useless as an assistant, and you could already feel the frustration bubbling up. “What’s happened now?”

“It’s the subpoena for the evidence in the Rogers case, the one about the gun,” he said, his voice tinged with panic. “The judge declined it, and I... I’m not sure what to do about it. The paperwork was filed wrong, and—”

You cut him off before he could ramble further. “Is it the one I gave you a draft on how to do it exactly?”

Yes! I typed but—I don't know something must have gone wrong and I’m at the office right now and I-” You sigh knowing you had made a mistake in asking him to handle such an important thing like a physical evidence paperwork. 

Knowing it was pretty urgent and could jeopardize the case, you decided to take care of it in the moment “I’ll handle it.” You ended the call, already plotting the quickest way to fix this.

You glanced at the others in the car, a sudden sense of urgency creeping over you. The event felt like it had slipped from your mind for a moment, but the reality of your job brought you back into focus.

“Is everything okay?” asked Spencer, with a concerned look on his face.

You nod slowly “Yeah just…” you said, turning to Austin and Morgan. “Can we please make a stop in the office for a second? There was a problem and I’ve got to go fix it.”

Morgan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “You sure? We’re almost there”

“It’s on the way, just some paperwork issue that I don't want to escalate” you said, your tone firm. “I’ll be quick. I promise”

Morgan nods and turns towards your office. A couple minutes later you are in front of the office, stepping out of the car. Spencer, followed quietly behind you. His voice was low, but there was concern in it. “I’ll come with you”

You just nodded, knowing that convincing him you’ll be fine was a waste of time. As you walked toward the courthouse, your mind raced through possible solutions to fix Caleb’s mistake, not wanting to think of the effect Spencer’s presence by your side had on you, and how the silence between you two was almost suffocating over the unsaid feelings.

Spencer cleared his throat. “You look beautiful,” he said, offering a sincere smile. He wanted to say more—wanted to apologize—but the words tangled inside him, unsure of how to make it right.

The compliment caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily defenseless. You felt the warmth of a genuine smile tug at your lips, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sight of it.

“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it.

Spencer exhaled, deciding to take the chance. “About what happened in the warehouse, I—”

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

“Counselor! I’m so sorry—I completely forgot the gala was tonight!” Caleb’s voice was frantic as he adjusted his glasses, guilt written all over his face. “I wanted to apologize. I know you trusted me with this, and I—”

“Just give me the files and let’s fix this,” you interrupted, already feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

Before anything else could be said, Spencer’s phone rang with Garcia’s name in it.

He picked up immediately, but something was off. The call crackled, her voice cutting in and out, fragmented in a way that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Garcia? You’re breaking up—what’s going on?”

As you, Caleb, and Spencer stepped into your office, the static grew worse. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but Penelope’s words were barely making it through.

“Ca—way… Welle—ridge…” The interference distorted Garcia’s words, making it impossible to understand what she was saying.

“What? Garcia, I can’t hear you,” Spencer said, pressing his hand over the other ear to block out the noise.

Your assistant glanced up. “There’s better reception downstairs at night.”

Spencer gave a quick nod and stepped out of your office, heading toward the lower level. By the time he got there, the call had already dropped. With a sigh, he immediately tried calling Garcia back as he got further and further from you. 

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Upstairs, Caleb handed you more files, his usual carefree expression in place. As you took them, your eyes flicked to the dirt under his nails, and you fought the instinctive wince of disgust.

“I gave you notes on how to do this. Did you check them?”

You really didn’t want to lecture a man who was two years older than you and a bit taller, but at this point, it felt unavoidable.

What felt even more ridiculous, though, was how he managed to mess up every task you gave him.

Caleb scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I mean… sort of? I figured it was just a formality thing, so I—”

“This isn’t even from the Rogers case, Caleb,” you interrupted, exasperation seeping into your voice as you handed the file back to him. You didn’t even try to mask your frustration.

“Oh! Right—sorry!” He fumbled through his stack of papers before hastily picking up another document and handing it over.

You sighed, taking it from him, already dreading what mistake you’d find next.

He disappeared down the hall, leaving you staring at the stack of files, irritation simmering under your skin. With a sigh, you scanned it carefully, your frustration shifting into confusion. There was nothing wrong with it. No technical error, no missing information—just a perfectly valid request.

Frowning, with your back towards the door, the file still in hand, rereading it just to be sure.

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

A sharp, jarring thud struck the back of your head, and the world lurched sideways. A burst of pain shot through your skull, white-hot and disorienting. The file slipped from your fingers, papers scattering across the floor as your vision blurred.

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Morgan’s phone buzzes sharply against the desk, the name Garcia flashing across the screen. He barely has time to press accept before her voice spills through the line, fast, frantic.

“Morgan, this is weird—really, really weird—I don’t understand how th—”

He straightens, instincts flaring. “What’s going on? You caught Calloway?” With a flick of his thumb, he puts the call on speaker so Austin can hear too.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end, then Garcia’s voice—urgent, almost breathless.

“Morgan I called Reid first but his phone it’s not working, Wallens Ridge just called. Calloway never left the facility.”

The blood in their veins turned to ice at the thought of it. If it wasn’t Calloway—the only one who knew about such a macabre detail—then who? Who else could possibly know?

They both bolted out of the car. Who even had your address? It had to be someone trusted. Someone close. Someone you had let too close.

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A blinding explosion of pain cracked through your skull, turning the world sideways. The room twisted, floor tilting beneath you as your knees buckled. The taste of copper flooded your mouth.

Hands—rough, too strong—grabbed at you, yanking you forward before you could catch yourself. Your body slammed into something solid. A wall? A desk? It didn’t matter. The impact rattled through your bones, sending shockwaves down your spine.

Panic surged through the haze. You tried to move—tried to fight—but the dizziness slowed your limbs, making everything feel sluggish. You wanted to scream for help, for someone, anyone, for Spencer, to come help you, but the spinning world had stolen your words.

Your fingers clawed for anything—something—to defend yourself. Your vision swam, but you felt it: the sharp edge of something on the desk. A pen? A letter opener?

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

A crushing grip seized your wrist, twisting, forcing your fingers open. The object clattered to the floor. He shoved you back—hard. Your shoulder slammed into the wall, pain blooming through muscle and bone. The air left your lungs in a choked gasp.

You had to move. Had to run. Had to— A sharp sting. Cold flooded your veins.

Your body locked, every nerve screaming in protest as the drug hit.

No. No. No.

You thrashed, arms flailing weakly, but your strength was already draining, slipping away like water through your fingers. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots creeping in.

Caleb yanked you by the arm, dragging you across the floor. The wood scraped against your skin, tearing at you as you kicked weakly. Your fingers clawed at the ground, desperate for an anchor. You dug your nails into the floor, hanging on, fighting to the last.

A white-hot burst of pain exploded through your hand as your index’s fingernail caught on a splintered groove in the floorboards—and ripped clean off.

A strangled cry wrenched from your throat. The agony barely registered before the blackness swallowed you whole.

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They were too late.

Your office was a disaster—papers scattered, the desk chair overturned, a letter opener lying abandoned on the floor. The air felt wrong, thick with something unsaid, something violent. But it wasn’t until Spencer’s gaze dropped that his stomach lurched.

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

His breath hitched, nausea creeping up his throat, but there was no time to process it. Austin was already moving, frantic, his eyes darting toward the hallway. He knew there were cameras out there—but not in here. Whoever had taken you had known exactly how to stay hidden.

Morgan and Austin had sprinted up the stairs the second Garcia’s call came through, barely stopping when they saw Spencer frozen near the entrance. The silence in the office was suffocating. There was no one else here. Everyone was at the gala.

Spencer was supposed to be watching you. Supposed to make sure nothing happened. And yet—he had failed. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as Morgan barked into his phone, demanding that Garcia access the security cameras, cursing when the signal started to fail.

That’s when he heard the soft creak of a door.

He turned just in time to see Caleb stepping out of the bathroom, his face and hands damp, water still clinging to his skin.

Something wasn’t right.

“Where is she?” Austin’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Caleb blinked, frowning. “Where’s who?”

The nonchalance sent a cold chill through Spencer’s body.

Morgan wasn’t wasting time. He tore through your office, yanking open drawers, rifling through papers, looking for any sign of where you’d gone, but there was nothing. Austin was shouting your name now, advancing on Caleb, his voice rising with barely contained rage.

Then—Morgan cursed. Low. Cold. Spencer turned just as Morgan reached into Caleb’s desk and pulled something out. A signal jammer.

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

Austin was the first to react. In a blur of movement, he grabbed Caleb by the collar of his blue jacket and slammed him against the wall with enough force to make the drywall tremble.

Someone close. Someone who knew the building well enough to avoid the cameras. Someone who knew you—your schedule, your address.

Austin’s grip tightened. His voice was razor-sharp. “What have you done to her?”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His face paled. “I—I swear, I didn’t w-want t—”

Austin didn’t let him finish. He slammed him back again, harder. “Where is she?” His voice was low, lethal, vibrating with fury.

Morgan was calling Garcia again, his voice tense in the background, but Austin barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him—the only lead to where you were.

“They—they threatened me,” Caleb stammered, hands raised in surrender. “My family—I’m sorry, I—”

Austin didn’t care. He shoved him harder against the wall. “Where. Is. She?”

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, terror widening his eyes. His voice cracked as he stammered, “I—I don’t know—they just gave me the needle, and they took her through the back door.”

Morgan was already moving, heading toward the back of the building in search of any trace of you.

Austin didn’t budge. His grip on Caleb’s jacket tightened, his knuckles white. “What did you give her?” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw and dangerous. When Caleb hesitated, Austin snapped. “I’ll kill you with my own hands—what did you give her?!”

You had been drugged.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of sobriety—stolen in an instant.

The thought sent fire through Austin’s veins. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, but before he could lose himself in it, Spencer’s voice cut through the chaos.

Spencer’s gaze locked onto Caleb’s blue jacket, his mind racing. Then, he caught it—the dirt under Caleb’s nails. His stomach twisted.

The warehouse.

Caleb had been there. He was the one you saw. The one you spoke to in your office—where he could have easily eavesdropped.

You had been watched. You had a target on your back for far longer than any of them had realized.

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The air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal, creeping through your nostrils as your vision swam in and out of focus. Slowly, you began to regain awareness of your body and surroundings. A harsh light flickered overhead, blurring your senses, and a sharp pain on the side of your head made you wince.

Your hands were bound tightly behind your back, the rope digging into your skin, and the searing pain made it almost impossible to ignore. A sound, sharp and unsettling, reached your ears—the click of someone’s tongue. It was enough to snap you from your fading consciousness. You fought to stay awake, but your body felt like it was on fire, an unnatural heat that made your skin crawl. Despite the whistle of the wind coming from somewhere in the room, that warmth felt suffocating, as if it were dragging you deeper into memories—or perhaps the lack of them. Blurry flashes, distorted sounds, and a gnawing sense of wrongness churned in your mind, making you want to destroy anything within reach.

Then came the steps, heavy and deliberate, each footfall resonating through the creaking wood beneath.

“This one used to be one of my favorites, you know?” A low, cold voice slithered through the air.

Something about it... felt familiar. Your mind, clouded by pain and fear, tried to place the voice, but it wouldn’t come. It wasn’t Calloway, you knew that tone—there was no forgetting in the one that had whispered awful things to you in the dark, its pitch a disgusting echo in your ear.

Your mouth was dry, coated with a thick, cottony feeling that made it hard to speak. "Who... are you?" Your voice came out barely a whisper, weak and fragile—closer to breathless than you would’ve liked.

He hummed as he approached, the light casting long shadows over his grey and black hair, his dark clothes blending into the ominous surroundings. His presence was suffocating, strong and undeniable. He squatted down in front of you, the light revealing his sharp features and a long, crooked nose that seemed to sharpen his sinister presence.

"It doesn’t matter who I am, sugar," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with malice. "What matters is how close you've been sticking your nose in my business."

Another wave of sharp pain surged through your skull, confusing your thoughts as you tried to place the familiar face before you. But it was like trying to grab smoke—elusive, slippery.

He stood, his footsteps heavy as he moved behind you, his presence darkening the space.

"A friend of mine gave me some tips about what to do with you," he continued, his tone cold and casual, as if discussing something mundane.

You felt a jolt as his hands grasped your arm, and instinctively, you tried to squirm away, but his grip tightened like iron.

"Although," he mused, his voice taking on a sickening quality, "he preferred you docile. I’d rather have you... more awake." His words made you feel sick, each one like poison dripping into your ears.

The needle slid deeper, it's cold metal scraping against your skin, and you could feel the fluid entering your bloodstream—too quickly, too forcefully. Panic surged within you, clawing at your chest, suffocating you. You fought against it, trying to tear your arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

The world began to spin. The adrenaline hit you fast, a hot wave of electricity zipping through your veins, making your heart race and your breath catch in your throat. Your mind was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like water running through your fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered close to your ear, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, like a predator with its prey. "The rush. It's all just a little push, and you'll be awake for everything. For all the things that are coming."

The blurry edges of your vision started to sharpen, your breath coming in short, rapid gasps, your chest heaving with every painful inhale. Each breath felt like a battle, the world spinning around you as the adrenaline pulsed through your veins, burning you from the inside out.

Behind you, you heard him laugh—a harsh, cruel sound that sent ice through your veins. But it wasn't the laugh that made you shudder; it was the anger underneath it.

"If only Dean could see how big his sweet girl has grown," he spat, his voice thick with venom, dripping with something darker than just anger. "He was a good associate, knew exactly how and when to prescribe pills for our little business."

The words were like poison, each one meant to wound, to remind you of the twisted connections. You could feel your pulse racing from the adrenaline, your body on edge as the drug coursed through you, making your heart hammer and your vision swim.

"He's rotting in prison now," he continued, his tone laced with twisted satisfaction. His hand grabbed a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back so roughly that a sharp gasp of pain ripped from you.

But it didn’t stop you. The adrenaline only fueled the fire in your veins, making the anger burn hotter. You gritted your teeth, trying to focus, your throat raw and dry. "Same place you'll go when they catch you," you spat, voice hoarse but unwavering, as the rage swelled inside you.

He chuckled darkly, the sound grating against your ears, before the cold, hard press of metal settled against your temple. The weapon’s chill did nothing to cool the heat that roared inside of you, only making your body tremble with a surge of fury.

“Don’t be so sure of it, sweetheart,” he taunted, leaning in closer, his breath hot and rancid against your skin. “You and that friend of yours have been causing me a lot of trouble.”

Your chest heaved, but this time, the adrenaline wasn’t clouding your thoughts—it was sharpening them, feeding the fury that burned in your veins. Austin. His words only made the fire inside you grow.

“You’re the little bitch who runs that human catalogue? The whorehouse we searched?” you hissed, every word dripping with venom.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your blood boil. “Whorehouse? Is that how you call orphanages now?” His twisted smile spread across his face when he saw the flicker of confusion in your eyes.

A sharp sting ripped through the right side of your cheek as he slapped you hard, the pain jolting through your skull. Orphanages? You tried to focus, trying to make sense of his words, but the anger only surged more violently within you.

He laughed harder, the sound reverberating through the cold air. “I thought they called them foster homes now. You’re one to know, aren’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dripped with mockery, savoring the way his words landed, knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

He circled around you like a predator, his steps slow and deliberate, inspecting the room. “Like I said, this one was one of my favorites.” His words were casual, but they carried a weight that made your stomach turn.

Through the sharp blur of your vision, you turned your head, your eyes darting to the right. The trees outside were bare, dry branches silhouetted against the bright moon. Recognition hit you like a blow to the chest, and your heart sank. You were in the warehouse you and Spencer had searched earlier.

The memory hit you like a freight train—rows of tiny beds, abandoned, empty, each one a reminder of the lives stolen and shattered. The thought of those children, trapped in that hell, sickened you, making every inch of your skin crawl with the need to escape.

A low, guttural groan escaped your lips, fury burning in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You fought against the ropes binding your wrists, the adrenaline sharpening your senses, making everything feel raw. "I’m going to kill you," you snarled through clenched teeth, barely able to contain the rage. The thought of being in that place again, again, after everything you'd been through... it made your entire body tremble with fury.

“Where’s Calloway’s little girl? His sugarcube? The one he refused to sell after seeing her so tiny and beautiful in that hospital bed?” He taunted, pulling a piece of candy from his pocket. “He told me you loved these. Didn’t you like my special delivery? He used to give you these and you’d just love them.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer. The memories flooded back—sharp and violent, dragging you into the past. You could almost feel the sticky sweetness coating your tongue again, the bitterness mixing with the sugar, and the suffocating control of it all.

Calloway used to feed you those damn candies—piles of them—whether you wanted them or not. He would shove them in your mouth, watching you as you had no choice but to swallow, his sick pleasure in the power he had over you written all over his face. He reveled in your discomfort, in your helplessness, in your inability to escape.

Once, you’d tried to hide some of the candy, just a few pieces, to give to the other kids in the foster home. Maybe it would make them smile, maybe it would give them a little relief from their own nightmare. But Calloway had caught you. He’d punished you for it—made you pay the price for defying him.

You never tried to hide the candy again.

The sickening memory made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat. The pain of the past felt so close now—too close, threatening to overwhelm you. The heat of adrenaline still surged through you, but it didn’t dull the disgust, the rage.

“I have proof of your sick business,” you spat, your voice rough and dripping with fury. “Every escape route, the safehouse, the money transactions—everything. And you’ll go to the most disgusting 2x2 cell I can find in this world and rot there, going crazy in isolation.”

He hummed, his gaze cold and calculating as he slowly pointed the gun at your forehead, steady between your brows. You stared him down, defiant, refusing to let him see even a hint of fear.

“You think that’s going to save you?” His voice was a low murmur, twisted with mockery. 

His grip tightened on the gun, and for a brief moment, the world narrowed down to the cold, unforgiving barrel pointing against your forehead. You could feel his anger radiating off him, a palpable heat, but it only fueled your own defiance. His words were venomous, designed to rattle you, but you stood strong.

“You’re going to die here, sweetheart. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long. All your little threats, all your big talk? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll put so many bullets in your head, God wouldn’t even recognize you.” He sneered, the words dripping with malice.

You rested your head against the cold steel, the metal biting into your skin, but you didn’t flinch. In that moment, the sensation was almost soothing, like the clarity that comes when everything else fades away, leaving you focused. Focused on one thing.

“I don’t believe in God,” you said, your voice low and steady, despite the terror churning in your chest. "Go ahead and shoot. See if that stops me from haunting you from the grave."

His finger moved over the trigger, just a whisper away from pulling it. The sound of quick footsteps approaching was the only thing that stopped him.

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The BAU stepped out of the SUV with precision, their movements sharp and efficient. Spencer felt his chest tighten beneath the bulletproof vest, adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

After your kidnapping, they had brought Caleb in for questioning. He had confessed to aiding people who had threatened him and his family, revealing that he had given them your personal address. He had been sent to retrieve documents from the same warehouse where you'd been taken, but he panicked and dropped them before JJ could reach him.

The threats had been traced to a man named Graham Sullivan, a former doctor who no longer practiced. He traveled frequently, never staying in one place for long. Garcia had tracked his rented car through its online GPS, leading them straight to the warehouse.

Spencer could only hope they weren’t too late. Again.

Hotch directed the team to surround the house, already briefing them on the structure. He and Morgan led the breach, kicking the door down and clearing every room with practiced efficiency.

"FBI! Put the gun down!" Morgan’s voice rang out from the last room.

Reid rushed in behind Hotch, his heart pounding. His eyes landed on you—sitting in a chair, wrists raw and red from the restraints tied behind your back. Across from you, Sullivan stood with a gun aimed directly at you.

Sullivan’s grip on the gun was steady, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flicked between the agents and you, calculating his next move.

Reid could feel the pulse in his throat, pounding, deafening. He tightened his grip on his own gun, but his hands were steady—years of fieldwork had trained them to be.

“Graham,” Hotch’s voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There’s no way out of this. Put the gun down.”

Graham’s presence triggered something in your memory—distant, almost dreamlike, but unmistakable. The image of Uncle Gram flashed before you, an echo of Calloway’s manipulation. You could almost hear his voice, coaxing you to greet him every time he visited, making you act like everything was normal. But it never was. After his visits, the house always felt emptier, the silence heavier, as if another group of children had been “adopted,” leaving behind only their absence.

Graham moved to fire, but Hotch was faster. He saw the threat in his eyes before Graham could make a move, and with practiced precision, he shot him in the leg. Graham crumpled to the floor, dropping the gun as he went down, clutching his leg above the knee. Spencer immediately rushed to undo your restraints, but you didn’t follow him. Your eyes were fixed on something else. You weren’t looking at Graham, or even at Spencer. 

All you saw was the gun in the corner. All you felt was the burn of your newly freed hands. All you wanted was revenge.

Before anyone could stop you, you lunged for the gun, fingers closing around the grip. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your breath ragged as you turned the weapon on Graham.

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

Morgan called your name, but you didn’t hear him. Your eyes were locked onto Graham’s.

Your right hand trembled slightly, the raw, nailless finger resting over the trigger. It pulsed—as if calling you to pull it.

The sirens in your head were deafening, drowning out Morgan and Hotch as they tried to reach you.

“Where’s your God now?” you spat, voice sharp and shaking with rage. “Because He sure as hell wasn’t in that house.”

Your entire body trembled, but not with fear. Not with hesitation. With something darker, something primal, something that had lived inside you for years, clawing at the walls of your ribs, screaming to be let out. And now—now that monster had a name, a face, and he was kneeling right in front of you.

Your chest heaved as you tightened your grip on the gun, the cool weight of it grounding you, fueling you. Your hands ached, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force with which you clenched the weapon. Your index finger twitched against the trigger, the tendons in your wrist pulled so taut they might snap, the palace were you nails used to be pulsated as if it was calling you. Do it.

“This man trafficked children across the country.” Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the fury that laced every word. It crackled in the air around you like the moments before a thunderstorm, suffocating and electric. “He made them think they were safe. He made them trust him. He took their hands, promised them safety, and then he sold them. He ruined their lives—just like Calloway did.”

Morgan’s expression hardened.

You knew if you kept talking, you could get to him. You could make him see. Maybe, just maybe, he would let you do this. You could say it was an accident, that it was life or death. And you could walk free.

You didn’t move. You didn’t take your eyes off Graham, who had the audacity to grin.

The sight of his teeth—white, clean, untouched by suffering, untouched by the pain he had inflicted on others—sent something violent and raw ripping through you.

"Finally," he mused, his voice tainted with amusement, mockery, knowing. "Calloway’s little sugarcube. The angry one. The wild one. The one who snapped that boy’s arm like a twig when she was what—six? seven?"

Something inside you cracked.

The air turned thick. The blood in your veins ran hot, too fast, too much. You felt it in your fingertips, in the throb of your pulse, in the back of your skull where pressure built like an overfilled dam, desperate to break.

Your ears rang with the phantom sound of his voice—not Sullivan’s, but Calloway’s—the slurred taunts, the threats, the sickly sweet way he’d whispered your name while he—

Morgan took a careful step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Put the gun down," he urged, his voice calm but firm. "This isn’t you."

But it was you.

The gun in your hand felt like the only real thing in the room. The weight of it, the cold metal against your palm—it was control, justice, revenge.

Graham’s smirk deepened, unfazed. "Go on," he taunted, his voice raspy. "Show them who you really are."

Your heart pounded. Your finger hovered over the trigger, aching to pull it.

"You don’t have to do this," Morgan tried again. "You pull that trigger, you don’t get to come back from it."

The words hit you like a slap, but they didn’t land. The sound of the gun, of Graham’s taunting grin, drowned everything else out.

Your chest was tight, your breath ragged and shallow. Every fiber of your being was screaming, do it. End him. Make him pay. But something else, something deep inside, tugged at you—just a whisper of hesitation, but it was enough.

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

His voice, when it came, was soft. It wasn’t the sharp edge of a command or the hard lines of Morgan’s warning. It was patient, the way he always spoke to you when he thought you needed to be reminded of your worth. Of your humanity.

He called your name, his voice threaded with something like understanding, like he was walking on glass but knew that you needed him to be there. “I know what you’re feeling. I know you want him to pay. But this won’t fix anything. You know that, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were locked on Graham, on his smile. The gun in your hand felt so right. But there was something in Reid’s voice, something gentle, that made you waver.

You could feel his presence now, right next to you. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body that seemed to pull you in. He wasn’t backing off, wasn’t giving you space to breathe—he was there. Centered.

Reid repeated your name, his voice lower, more insistent. “You’re not him. You’re not the monster he’s trying to make you. Please.”

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

You finally tore your eyes away from Graham, the weight of your anger still pressing down on your chest. And then you saw him—Reid. His eyes weren’t filled with fear, or judgment, or pity. No, they were soft, gentle, as if he was trying to reach something deep inside of you.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were some broken thing to be fixed, or a threat to be afraid of. He wasn’t recoiling in disgust. He was looking at you like you were human. Like you mattered. Like you weren’t the monster you thought you were.

"Please," he whispered, his hand—slow, tentative—moved toward your trembling wrist. "You don’t need to do this. You are not alone."

Your breath hitched. A sob built up in your chest, hot and sharp. The rage was still there—so there—but somewhere in the flood, you felt something crack. A dam breaking. The years of holding everything back, all the hurt, the memories, the weight of a life you had never asked for, crashing down on you. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, Reid’s voice was the only thing you heard.

“I’ve got you,” he said, almost like a prayer, his fingers brushing yours, a lifeline in the chaos.

Your chest burned with the need to scream, to yell at him to stay away, to let you do what needed to be done. But instead, your hand—still holding the gun—slipped. Your fingers, raw and trembling, lost their grip, and the weapon fell to the floor with a soft, final clink.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. You stared down at the gun, a wave of dizziness crashing through you.

The urge to kill, to make him feel the same terror, the same helplessness, was gone. But in its place… there was nothing. Just emptiness.

Reid’s hand was on your arm now, guiding you, steadying you, like a shore amidst the storm. You let him pull you back, away from Graham, away from the moment you almost gave in to. You let him lead you out of the fury, out of the darkness that had almost consumed you.

Hotch kicked the gun away, and Morgan quickly cuffed Sullivan, but none of it registered. All you could hear was the thudding of your own heart in your ears, drowning out the world around you. You couldn't shake the feeling of weakness gnawing at you—how you couldn't pull the trigger, how pathetic it felt to even consider it. The shame washed over you in waves, thick and suffocating.

And then, hands were on you—Spencer’s hands. Soft, steady, and protective. They guided you, as if he could sense the storm raging inside of you, and he didn’t let go. His touch grounded you, calming the chaos, but it didn’t stop the guilt. You wanted to pull away, to hide from the vulnerability that threatened to swallow you whole, but Spencer didn’t let you. His presence was a quiet reassurance, his grip gentle yet firm, and for once, you let yourself be guided. You needed it. You needed him.

The freezing raindrops began to fall as Spencer walked you out of the building toward the waiting paramedics. Each drop felt like a sharp reminder of everything that had just happened. As the cold settled into your bones, everything hit you all at once. Your body trembled, weak and exhausted, while self-loathing thoughts swirled in your mind. You couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done—or what you had almost done.

Spencer noticed the way your body quivered, how your shoulders were bare in the downpour. Without a second thought, he draped his FBI windbreaker over you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice broken, eyes filled with regret.

Before he could reassure you—that none of this was your fault, that you hadn’t done anything wrong, that everything would be okay—one of the paramedics rushed toward you with a stretcher. In an instant, they pulled you from his arms, guiding you toward the ambulance.

Spencer cursed under his breath, the image of you in that moment burned into his mind. He knew it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The sun bathed the park in a golden glow, its warmth fighting against the crisp breeze, making the trees shimmer with life on what the weatherman called ‘the warmest day of our winter’. Everything looked prettier at sunset. It was a beautiful day—one best spent among the laughter of children and the quiet focus of elderly chess players, their skill not only clearing your mind but offering it a rare moment of peace.

It had been two weeks since the night you almost lost control. After that, you decided to take three weeks off work—time you had spent searching for a new place, moving in, visiting your parents, and coming to the park.

"Check in five," Ethan said with a confident smile.

He was good—really good. He assessed the board with careful precision, you considered every move, from the forced plays to the controlling one's for the next move. 

"I see it in four," a voice said behind you.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah, but he plays with the rooks,” you said, studying the board after spotting the move Spencer had pointed out.

Ethan frowned as you moved your bishop, setting up a check he hadn’t seen yet—not until he moved his pawn.

“Check in two,” you announced.

He sighed and pushed his king piece forward. “I officially surrender because I do not remember moving my bishop there.” His confused expression made you smile. Then, he glanced behind you. “And I’m glad you finally showed up. Can’t wait to see which one of you is better.”

Spencer tensed slightly but forced a polite smile at Ethan, who had no idea what had happened between you two. And Spencer hadn’t come here looking for you—but considering the probabilities of both of you being at the same place at the same time, he wasn’t exactly surprised either.

Still, he didn’t know how to talk to you. He still felt guilty about how he had treated you in the warehouse, and you were ashamed of how you had reacted.

As Ethan walked away, Spencer took the seat across from you. Something shifted in your stomach when you noticed his hair—it was shorter now, messier, no longer brushing his shoulders. Your blood rushed at the sight.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.

It was infuriating and embarrassing how impulsive you became around him. “You cut your hair.”

“Uh—yeah. My boss said I looked like I joined a boyband.” He ran a hand through it, chuckling nervously. 

“I think it looks good.” Where had all the apologies you prepared for this moment gone?

He smiled softly, wishing the hair was long enough to cover his pink ears, and you looked down at the chessboard, unable to meet his eyes.

“Do you want to start over?” he asked gently.

When you looked up again, it wasn’t the board he was focused on—it was you. There was something in the way his eyes shine, the way he swallowed nervously. That’s when you realized he wasn’t just talking about the game.

So much remained unspoken. Too much. Fear and shame sat heavy between you. You had convinced yourself that no one could love someone with the monster you carried inside you. But Spencer had seen it. And somehow, he was still here, offering a way forward.

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

His skin looked soft, and you hesitated for only a second before reaching out. For the first time in weeks, physical touch didn’t make you flinch.

You smiled. “I’m Woody.” Your voice was soft but steady.

“I’ve been told you’re good at chess.” He smiled at you the way the sun warmed the park—quiet but certain.

“Well, wanna see for yourself?” You began arranging the pieces.

He did the same, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Maybe the odds suggested otherwise, and maybe you didn’t believe in destiny—but if Spencer ever confessed how he had felt inexplicably drawn to the park that day, you might just believe him.

Dostoevsky once wrote, “To love someone means to see them as God intended them to be.” And Spencer, ever the atheist and man of science, found himself willing to believe in God every time he looked into your eyes.

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　　　 　　 　　 　

FINALLY MY BABYS ARE TOGETHER. the request for them are OPEN. And the series is going to take a jump in time, next time i post about them, they are going to be already together

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @esposadomd <3

---

i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.

Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.

Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.

So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone. 

And now he’s bored.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down. 

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face. 

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes. 

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex. 

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit. 

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles. 

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge. 

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.” 

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus. 

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in. 

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost. 

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar. 

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?” 

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird. 

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. 

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you. 

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.   

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else. 

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed. 

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly. 

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain. 

He likes that. 

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on. 

Trying to prove something. 

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami. 

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister— 

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current. 

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres. 

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go. 

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother. 

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling. 

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water. 

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon. 

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides. 

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under. 

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him. 

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you. 

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her. 

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.” 

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow. 

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop. 

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—” 

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not. 

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing. 

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be. 

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it. 

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.” 

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take. 

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.” 

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.” 

“You are?” 

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar. 

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth. 

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm. 

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.” 

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment. 

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice. 

Friends.  

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe. 

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races. 

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness. 

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand. 

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t— 

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?” 

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?” 

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar. 

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri. 

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face. 

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is. 

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make. 

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece. 

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good. 

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in. 

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones. 

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses. 

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone. 

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku. 

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life. 

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them. 

“That was expensive,” you whine. 

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds. 

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger. 

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon. 

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him. 

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be. 

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?” 

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.” 

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs. 

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble. 

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.” 

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years. 

“Please, no—” 

“We gotta have it out—” 

“No, no—” 

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come. 

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—” 

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.” 

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears. 

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday. 

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall. 

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.” 

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time. 

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—” 

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his. 

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.” 

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.” 

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.” 

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—” 

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar. 

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race. 

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.” 

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. "I'd rather die."

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.” 

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him to close. 

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.  

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—” 

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!" He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible."

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask. 

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast. 

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but… 

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.  

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you. 

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add. 

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch. 

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you. 

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on. 

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park. 

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well. 

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team. 

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here. 

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day. 

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind. 

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative. 

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic. 

“Do you love her?” she asks outright. 

He fucking hesitates. 

His throat feels dry. 

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape. 

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits. 

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right. 

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae. 

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes. 

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye. 

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid 

I hope this email finds you well. 

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead. 

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya. 

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye. 

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this. 

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport) 

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year 

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible. 

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view. 

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo) 

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you. 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: You're in my dreams 

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just 

wonder.

Sometimes. 

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts. 

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest. 

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on. 

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of. 

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed. 

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology. 

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret. 

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away. 

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again. 

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes. 

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble. 

Accusation. Question. 

Fact? 

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far. 

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar. 

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation. 

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why. 

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere. 

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.” 

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it. 

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.” 

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote. 

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat. 

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—” 

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know. 

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something. 

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.” 

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—” 

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his. 

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that. 

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him. 

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.” 

He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐

---

this series was so good 😭😭 i love this author so much

I CANNOT EXPLAIN HOW GOOD IT WAS

please go read 🙏🙏

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Masterlist

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Links:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

---

I LOVE A BADASS FMC, LETS GOOOOO

In Case of Emergency (II)

(Spencer Reid x Medic! Reader)

Warnings: violence, mentions of assault, blood, slow burn, cursing, and eventual smut 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

word count: 3,300

Amidst an increase of injuries out in the field, a new team member is assigned to the BAU. A medic. Tasked with keeping the team alive, but when an unexpected threat challenges her ability to think on her feet, the team is forced to rethink their assumptions of their newest member.

Next | Previous | Beginning

Chapter Two: First Case

The team landed in Chicago just after sunset, stepping onto the tarmac as the crisp night air settled over the city.

Four women had been murdered in the past two weeks, all strangled and posed in public spaces- parks, alleyways, bus stops. No signs of sexual assault, no robbery, and no apparent personal connection between the victims. The Chicago PD was stumped, and the media was already running with the story.

Inside the local precinct, the officer in charge of the case briefed the team. A tired-looking man in his fifties, he ran a hand through his graying hair as he pulled up the crime scene photos, re-introducing the team to the case.

"All four victims were young women, ages twenty-four to thirty. They were found early in the morning by city workers or pedestrians. No eyewitnesses, no camera even caught the attacks," the officer explained. "The coroner ruled the cause of death as strangulation by ligature, but we haven't been able to identify what was used."

You stood towards the back of the precinct's conference room, taking in the gruesome images. The bodies had been positioned deliberately- hands folded across their stomachs, legs straight, eyes closed. Almost... peaceful.

JJ spoke up first. "He's not just dumping them- he's posing them. That suggests remorse. "

Hotch nodded. "Or it's a ritual."

Morgan studied the photos, frowning. "What about defensive wounds?"

The officer shook his head. "Minimal. No signs of a struggle. We don't think they were bound or incapacitated beforehand, either. It's like they didn't fight back."

You glanced at Reid, who tapped his fingers against the table, his mind already working.

"That could suggest a method of control, something that keeps them compliant," Redi said, his voice quickening with thought. "There are cases where killers use intimidation, coercion, or even psychological manipulation to subdue victims. But there's also the possibility of a chemical agent."

Your interest piqued. "A sedative?"

Reid nodded, flipping through the coroner's reports. "If the toxicology results aren't conclusive, we should check for less common paralytic agents- hydroxybutyrate, scopolamine, and even muscle relaxants. Some tend to metabolize quickly and wouldn't show up in standard tests."

Hotch turned to you. "We won't be heading out into the field until we get more information on the unsub. Could you go to the coroner's office and follow up?"

You nodded, standing, happy to be able to help the team. "On it."

Reid stood up quickly as well. "I'll go with her."

Hotch barely blinked before nodding, and out the corner of your eye, you could see Morgan smirking. "Alright. The rest of us will go to the crime scenes and see what we can find there."

As the team split up, you and Reid made your way to the coroner's office, walking side by side down the cold Chicago streets.

“You really think there could be a paralytic agent?” you asked.

Reid adjusted his satchel, his expression focused. “It would explain the lack of defensive wounds. Even in cases where a killer has overwhelming physical strength, victims typically scratch, claw, or attempt to break free. These women didn’t.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “If we find proof of that, it could tell us a lot about who we're looking for.”

Reid glanced at you with a small smile. “You catch on fast.”

You smirked. “Was that a compliment, Dr. Reid?”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

You laughed, and for a brief moment, the weight of the case felt just a little lighter.

The coroner's office was cold. The kind of artificial chill designed to preserve the dead and make the living feel uncomfortable. The air was thick with formaldehyde, and antiseptic.

You had spent enough time in med school around cavaliers to be unfazed, but the smell still lingered in the back of your throat. It always did.

The city's medical examiner greeted you both with a weary nod, leading you toward the sterile steel tables where the latest victim lay.

You and Reid stepped up beside the body as the medical examiner pulled back the crisp white covering. You immediately noted the pallor of the skin, the slight lividity around the neck, and the absence of external wounds beyond the ligature marks.

Reid spoke first. "Any signs of petechial hemorrhaging?"

The examiner nodded, gesturing toward the victim's eyes. “Yes, consistent with strangulation. But what’s strange is the lack of bruising around the trachea. Typically, in manual strangulation cases, we’d see deep tissue damage. The hyoid bone is intact.”

You leaned in, studying the marking with a clinical eye. "That means the unsub wasn't using brutal force. He applied even, calculated pressure- enough to cut off oxygen without crushing the windpipe."

You frowned slightly, slipping a glove from your bag and brushing your gloved fingers near the victim's clavicle. “See this slight indentation here? That suggests a flexible ligature—probably soft, something like a silk scarf, a thin rope, or medical tubing.”

Reid nodded. “That would make sense if he has medical knowledge. He would know how to strangle without causing excessive bruising, making it look almost… peaceful.”

You exhaled, removing your glove. “Which matches the way he posed them.”

The examiner glanced at you both. “You were right to suggest testing for chemicals—I ran an extended toxicology panel, and there were trace amounts of scopolamine in her system.”

You and Reid exchanged a sharp look.

“Scopolamine,” you muttered. “That changes everything.”

You and Reid returned to the precinct with the new discovery, presenting your finding to the team.

The both of you stood before the team who had just come back from the scene. You began to explain your findings. "Scopolamine is a powerful drug that can cause disorientation, suggestibility, and even temporary amnesia"

"If our unsub is using it, he could be convincing these women to follow him willingly," Spencer spoke, perfectly finishing your own thought process.

Prentiss frowned. “If he’s using scopolamine, that suggests a level of medical knowledge or access.”

You nodded. “It’s not something you just buy over the counter. He’s either making it himself, or he’s stealing it.”

Morgan reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. "I'll call Garcia and ask him to check the hospital and pharmaceutical suppliers' records."

A few moments later, Garcia's voice came through the speakerphone. "Okay, I’ve got three reported thefts of scopolamine in the last six months—two from hospitals, one from a university lab. I threw in that last search to cover all our bases."

"Thank you, babygirl, you're the best." Morgan flirted before exchanging goodbyes with Garcia.

“That gives us a starting point. Let’s get a list of employees and students who had access.” Hotch spoke sternly.

Reid crossed his arms. “Given the control he has over his victims, he may have a background in psychology or persuasion techniques—maybe even a history of domestic abuse or coercion.”

Morgan leaned back. “You’re thinking he’s done this before?”

Reid nodded. “Not necessarily murder, but manipulation, control, coercion—this level of precision suggests experience.”

You shivered slightly. The idea of a man practicing on victims before escalating to murder was sickening.

JJ turned to the map. “If we can predict where he’ll strike next, we might be able to stop him.”

You studied the locations of the previous victims. Something clicked in your mind.

“These sites… they aren’t random.” You pointed at the map. “They’re all near major commuter areas—train stations, bus stops, places where people might be alone for a few minutes.”

Reid’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s… that’s good. That means he’s hunting in a pattern.”

Hotch nodded. “Morgan, Prentiss, take a team and set up near the Red Line train station—if he follows the pattern, that could be his next hunting ground.”

As the team moved into action, Reid turned to you, an impressed look in his eyes.

“You saw the pattern before anyone else,” he said quietly.

You shrugged. “I just… noticed.”

He smiled slightly. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at the sincere praise from the resident genius of the BAU.

A black surveillance van was parked a block away from the suspected target site- a deserted alleyway near the Red Line train station. It was late, and the streets were quiet expect for the occasional car rolling past and the distant hum of the city's night life.

Inside the van, you were once again meticulously setting up your medical bag. Which was packed with epinephrine, suture kits, clotting agents, and emergency airway tools, among many other things. Everything had a place, arranged neatly for quick access in case things went sideways.

Reid sat across from you, watching as you adjusted the straps on your Kevlar vest. His eyes darted to the array of supplies, curiosity flickering across his face.

"You carry all of that with you on every case?" he asked.

"Pretty much. Never know what could happen; it's best to be overprepared than under. Even if it means my bag weighs tons." You smiled, zipping up the bag and adjusting the strap across your body.

He nodded, shifting in his seat. "That's smart. But also, extremely prepared."

You smirked. "That's what being a combat medic does to you. It might not be exactly the same as chasing serial killers, but if there's one thing the military drilled into me, it's always be prepared for the worst."

Reid blinked, processing. He tilted his head slightly in your direction. "It explains a lot, though."

"Like what?" you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

He hesitated before continuing. "Like why you're calm under pressure. and why Hotch trusts you in the field despite your..." He trailed off, suddenly looking unsure of his words.

You giggled. "Despite my 'cute and innocent' demeanor?" Recalling what Garcia had said about you previously, all of which the team, including Reid, had agreed with.

Reid gave you a sheepish look. "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, don't worry, Spence, I'm well aware of how the team sees me." You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice, a surge of playfulness and confidence overtaking you. "I'm just the innocent little medic, not a tough profiler. But between you and me?"

Reid swallowed hard as you got closer to him.

"I'm tougher than I look," you whispered, smirking slightly, then leaning back to rest your back against the van's wall.

Reid visibly blushed, the tips of his ears turning red as he fumbled for a response, once again surprised by you. There used to be a time when he would only allow one specific person to call him Spence, but when you said it, something shifted within him...he didn't mind it.

Reid cleared his throat, clearly trying to regain his composure. "W-Well, statistically, people tend to make assumptions based on outward appearances, but the reality is often much more nuanced."

You laughed softly. "I might have only gotten to know you for a small period, but I'm guessing that was a very Reid way of saying 'don't judge a book by its cover.'"

Before he could reply, Garcia, who had hacked into the city's surveillance, began to speak through the comms.

"Alright, my lovelies, we've got movement near the target location- unidentified male approaching a woman near the alleyway. Could be our guy.

You and Reid immediately snapped into work mode, grabbing your gear and pushing the van doors open.

The moment you stepped onto the street, making your way to the alleyway, you saw it.

A woman slumped against a wall, body limp.

"Reid, cover me." You said, rushing toward her, Reid nodding behind you, pulling out his gun, walking slowly to check the rest of the alleyway and informing the rest of the team on the situation.

You dropped to your knees beside the woman.

Immediately checked her pulse- weak and erratic. Her breathing was shallow, and her lips were turning blue.

Scopolamine.

"Stay with me," you murmured, pulling a vial of naloxone from your medical bag. With a steady hand, you injected the reversal drug into her thigh.

Seconds felt like an eternity as you monitored her, willing her to breathe. Then-

A sharp gasp.

Her chest rose violently, lung sucking in oxygen as she coughed.

You sighed in relief, hand on her shoulder. "You're okay. Just breathe."

But just as you began to catch your own breath-

A shadow creeps around the corner of the alleyway.

Your instincts screamed.

Before you could turn, you felt a hand grab your shoulder, yanking you backward.

The unsub.

Adrenaline surged through you as your military training kicked in. You twisted your body, using the unsub's momentum against him as you threw a sharp elbow into his ribs. He stumbled into the wall.

You didn't hesitate. Spinning on your heel, driving a kick into his stomach, crashing him to the ground.

The second he hit the pavement, you reached for you gun-

But before you could fire, Reid's voice rang out.

"Y/N!"

The unsub suddenly sprang back up, shoving you down to the floor and lunging straight for Reid.

No.

Your body moved before you could think.

Gun still in hand. Finger on the trigger.

BANG

The gunshot echoed through the alley, and the unsub collapsed, a bullet lodged in his shoulder.

Before you could stand back up, the rest of the team arrived, Morgan and Hotch moving to secure the unsub while Rossi and Prentiss checked on the victim. Sirens echoed in the background.

But Reid? He was immediately at your side, eyes scanning you for injuries.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice tight.

You nodded, adrenaline still surging. "Yeah, I'm fine. My back might not be in the morning, though." You attempted to joke to help shift the mood.

He exhaled, relief washing over his face. Then, he offered his hand.

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

"You saved my life," he spoke.

You smiled. "Told you I was tougher than I look."

Reid's lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but Morgan's voice cut in.

"Damn, doc, remind me never to underestimate you again."

You grinned, glancing at Reid. "Did you hear that! I think they might be starting to come around!"

Reid playfully shook his head as you cheered, awe still written all over his face.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of something else.

The hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, a low, steady vibration beneath your feet as you settled into your seat across from Reid. The team was exhausted but in good spirits—case closed, unsub caught, and, thanks to you, no fatalities.

You could still feel the adrenaline thrumming through you.

Rossi leaned back with a smirk. “You know,” he mused, looking at you, “I was skeptical at first, but you handled yourself damn well back there.”

JJ nodded, smiling warmly. “I have to agree. You didn’t just patch people up—you kept a cool head, you read the scene, and you made the right call under pressure.”

Morgan grinned, pointing at you. “Give her some more training, and she could be one hell of a profiler.”

You blinked, surprised at the praise. “Oh, uh… thanks?”

Prentiss chuckled. “He’s right. You’ve got the instincts. The way you handled that unsub? Textbook situational awareness.”

Even Hotch, ever stoic, gave a small nod of approval. “If you’re interested, we can start incorporating more profiling training into your role.”

Your heart swelled a little at that. You had expected to be babied by the team for a while—especially after the whole ‘sweet and innocent’ first impression—but now? They actually saw you as capable.

“Wow, I—yeah, I’d love that,” you said, beaming.

Morgan smirked. “Still can’t believe you took down an unsub twice in one night.”

You laughed. “Beginner’s luck?”

“Yeah, sure,” Morgan drawled, shaking his head with amusement.

Reid had been quiet throughout the conversation, but you could feel his eyes on you. When you glanced over, he was already looking, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Impressed, Reid?" you teased.

Reid blinked. "I-um-yes, actually," he admitted. "Your level of medical expertise combined with your ability to assess danger is- well, statisically- extremely rare. It's very impressive."

His genuine admiration made your chest feel warm. You weren't used to someone analyzing your skills and appreciating them.

You smiled, leaning back in your seat. "High praise coming from you; you're the genius."

There was a moment of quiet between you, comfortable yet charged, before you shifted the conversation.

"So Dr. Reid," you said with a bit of humor. "Do you have any exciting post-case plans? Or is it all work and no play?"

Reid huffed a small laugh. “Well, statistically speaking, agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit have a high tendency to engage in solitary activities after emotionally taxing cases, such as reading or watching television.”

You grinned. “Is that your fancy way of saying you’re planning a solo book night?”

Reid hesitated before giving a small nod. “Yes, actually. But I was also thinking about rewatching some Doctor Who episodes.”

Your eyes immediately lit up. “Wait—Doctor Who? Are you a Whovian?”

Reid blinked. “A what?”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “Reid. Whovians—fans of Doctor Who. You’re telling me you watch the show and don’t even know what we’re called?”

Reid’s brow furrowed. “I—well, I suppose I knew the term existed, but I never personally identified with it.”

You squinted at him playfully. “Mm-hmm. Sounds like a closet Whovian to me.”

His lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what would that make you?”

You grinned. “Oh, I’m loud and proud. I take my Doctor Who very seriously.”

Reid tilted his head slightly. “Do you have a favorite Doctor?”

"The tenth," you answered immediately.

Reid gave a knowing nod. “I suspected as much. You seem like a Ten fan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What does that mean?”

“Well, Ten is often considered the most charismatic, the most sentimental. He leads with heart rather than just intellect,” Reid mused. “You… seem like the type of person who values that in people.”

You stared at him, momentarily caught off guard by his insight. “Huh,” you murmured. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

Reid smiled faintly. “I do profile people for a living.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Okay, genius, what about you? Who’s your favorite?”

Reid shifted slightly, a little more reserved. “Eleven.”

You grinned. “I knew it! You totally give Eleven energy.”

Reid’s eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

You crossed one leg over the other, studying him. “You’re ridiculously smart, sometimes talk a mile a minute, and you’ve got that whole charmingly awkward but incredibly endearing thing going for you.”

Reid opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly thrown. A slight flush crept up his neck. “I—uh—”

You laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s a compliment.”

He cleared his throat. “Right. Well—um, thank you.”

You leaned forward slightly, dropping your voice just enough to make it feel just a little bit suggestive. “You know, I was actually planning a Doctor Who marathon soon.”

Reid’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, curiosity sparking in them. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head. “Comfy clothes, way too many snacks, yelling at the TV when things get emotional. The full experience.” You let a beat pass before adding, “Could be fun to have some company.”

Reid blinked, his brain clearly processing at full speed. “Company? As in…?”

You smiled. “As in you, Spencer.”

Reid’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”

You bit back a laugh at how comically stunned he looked. “Unless you’d rather watch alone.”

“No!” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself. He straightened slightly, schooling his expression. “I mean—I’d like that. It sounds… fun.”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “Good. Then it’s a plan.”

Reid’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah… a plan.”

Authors Note:

Ooooof, this was a long one! Haha! Sorry about that one. I really have fallen in love with this series, and once I started writing, I couldn't stop. I hope y'all enjoyed some reader and Spencer nerdy fluff at the end! I thought it would be a nice addition to such a case-driven chapter. Also, writing the case part was a bit of a challenge! But I tried my best and I hope it was good! I'm planning out the next chapter already, but I'm a bit torn between writing some more fluff or doing another case-driven one. Oh well, we'll see! If anyone has any suggestions, please do let me know! I'm open to any and all ideas!

Thank you for reading! <3

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my songs that would protect me from vecna would be cherry wine by hozier because that shit pulls my heart strings over and over again- crying listening to it rn

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A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

---

dealing with the worst case scenario

your condom breaks

you feel a lump on your breast

your friends are ignoring you

you’re stranded on an island 

you got rejected by a crush

you get into a car accident

you got stung by a bee/wasp

you got fired from your job

you’re in an earthquake

your tattoo gets infected

your house is on fire

you’re lost in the woods

you get arrested abroad

you get robbed

your partner cheated on you

you’re on a ship that’s sinking

you fall into ice

you’re stuck in an elevator

you hit a deer with your car

you have food poisoning

your pet passed away

you fall off of a horse

you or your friend has alcohol poisoning

you have toxic shock syndrome

your house has a gas leak

SO SO SO SOOOOO GOOD ❤️❤️

HEARTBREAK: LIVE | Masterlist

Rafe Cameron's MASTERLIST | Social Media AU

Pairing — Ex-BF!Rafe x Radio Host!Female Reader

Summary — You and Rafe were the perfect couple. But after a mysterious breakup, you went off the grid. When your best friends pulls you back into the spotlight to host a on-campus radio show, you find yourself opening up to the world about your experience. This time, with everyone listening—including Rafe. And him? He wants you back.

Content — college au, football player!rafe au

Timeline — 10/27/2024 – 12/29/2024

Status — Completed

NAVIGATION —

asks – thoughts – theories – analysis – ✏️ ideas – fav. moments feedbacks

LINKS —

community – spotify

TABLE OF CONTENT —

✶ Part 01 ✶ Part 02 ✶ Part 03 ✶ Part 04 ✶ Part 05

✶ Part 06 ✶ Part 07 ✶ Part 08 ✶ Part 09 ✶ Part 10

✶ Part 11 ✶ Part 12 ✶ Part 13 ✶ Part 14 ✶ Part 15

✶ Part 16 ✶ Part 17 ✶ Part 18 ✶ Part 19 ✶ Part 20

✶ Part 21 ✶ Part 22 ✶ Part 23 ✶ Part 24 ✶ Part 25

✶ Part 26 ✶ Part 27 ✶ Part 28 ✶ Part 29 ✶ Part 30

✶ Part 31 ✶ Part 32 ✶ Part 33 ✶ Part 34 ✶ Part 35

✶ Part 36 ✶ Part 37 ✶ Part 38 ✶ Part 39 ✶ Part 40

✶ Part 41 ✶ Part 42 ✶ Part 43 ✶ Part 44 ✶ Part 45

✶ Part 46 ✶ Part 47 ✶ Part 48 ✶ Part 49 ✶ Part 50

✶ Part 51 ✶ Part 52 ✶ Part 53 ✶ Part 54 ✶ Part 55

✶ Part 56 ✶ Part 57 ✶ Part 58 ✶ Part 59 ✶ Part 60

✶ Part 61 ✶ Part 62 ✶ Part 63 ✶ Part 64 ✶ Part 65

✶ Part 66 ✶ Part 67 ✶ Part 68 ✶ Part 69 ✶ Part 70

✶ Part 71 ✶ Part 72 ✶ Part 73 ✶ Part 74 ✶ Part End

EXTRAS —

✶ when reader blocks rafe on all socials

✶ when it's 'national text an ex' day

✶ when reader posts about rafe on instagram

✶ rafe and reader's clay date night

✶ reader watching their football edit

✶ reader sending rafe a football tiktok

✶ reader and rafe doing a tiktok trend

✶ new chauffeur alert

✶ rafe carrying reader home

✶ rafe posting reader on ig after getting back together

✶ pope's secret

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

---

i love this story, i think it might be the best i’ve ever read

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

Summary: “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – Or, the one where Oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader

Word count: 19k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: they meet in therapy, it's all angst, lying, guilt, implied former drug addiction and fraudulent behaviour. Smut: penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving), Oscar is a boob guy, very soft and vanilla, maybe a size kink? Fluff: they cuddle? and the ending is happy-ish? Other: takes place during a fictional 2025 season, an atheistic conversation about religion, smoking cigarettes.

A/N: This might be the gloomiest thing I’ve ever written, but it also has 5k words of pure smut, so yeah, there's that. I’m weirdly proud of it. Please tell me what you think ♡

Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history. 

Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race. 

And of course, it had to be with Charles. 

Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off. 

The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.

Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong. 

He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm. 

He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away. 

It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town. 

His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.

“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him. 

He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked. 

The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception. 

He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said. 

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 

One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe. 

This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.

People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you. 

A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket. 

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place. 

Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything. 

By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.

As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting. 

That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away. 

You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning. 

For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost. 

Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.” 

You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips. 

“Thanks,” you muttered. 

Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.

You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction. 

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.

“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.

You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck. 

Call it superstition, if you must. 

The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting.  Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed. 

After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat. 

You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough. 

_______________________________

You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday. 

It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it. 

However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now. 

You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment. 

Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery. 

There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.” 

You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that. 

“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark. 

You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy. 

The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather. 

It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started. 

You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories. 

You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to. 

“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious. 

“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.” 

He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again. 

You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him. 

There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty. 

When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused. 

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 

You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket. 

Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.” 

You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly. 

Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.

You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical. 

“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” 

You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.” 

He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.

There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible. 

“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.” 

Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car. 

 “So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?” 

“By that one pub? With the—” 

“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”

Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.

“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?” 

You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.  

Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.” 

He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator. 

As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression. 

“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 

“For the ride?” he asked. 

“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you. 

_______________________________

The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in. 

Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months. 

The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did. 

Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.

You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him.

You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.

A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.”

You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm.

“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.”

“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.”

He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him.

It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.

Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined.

During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts.

“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern.

Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.

“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.”

He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”

He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.

As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.

Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before.

Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”

You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?”

“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.”

“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke.

The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour.

“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”

You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said.

“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”

Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.

“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.”

You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?”

“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.”

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?”

Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this… loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”

“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”

Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.

You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.

“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft.

He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.”

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”

Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.

After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him.

With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death.

Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays.

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.

He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.

Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.

_______________________________

The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up. 

A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.

“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass. 

“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile. 

“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”

Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you. 

You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after, looking just as nervous as she did. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.

Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing.

Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee. 

You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends. 

You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend. 

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 

Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better. 

However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude. 

You froze in surprise. 

You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.

He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before. 

You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew. 

Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.

Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards. 

Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”

Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 

For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.

His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.

Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you. 

After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold. 

Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments. 

Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.  

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”

Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to. 

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.

The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.

“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.  

“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”

You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?” 

“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.” 

The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”

Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”

You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant. 

“So… when are you off?” 

“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.” 

Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?” 

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was. 

Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice. 

“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”

You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell. 

“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.” 

You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”

“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you. 

_______________________________

Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.

He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.

The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you. 

You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens. 

Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation. 

“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself. 

“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?” 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself. 

“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed. 

You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”

“I’m okay with dumb.”

Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear? 

Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.

You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face. 

You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks. 

When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear. 

And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you. 

It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking. 

“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered. 

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.

“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture. 

“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.” 

“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin. 

You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said. 

Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him. 

“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled. 

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote. 

After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you. 

His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.

Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good? 

His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him. 

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.

“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were. 

“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.

“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly. 

A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment. 

“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”

At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa. 

“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest. 

“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask. 

“I am.” 

Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.

The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants. 

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 

His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin. 

He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands. 

Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs. 

You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you. 

When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous. 

“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.  

”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.” 

You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.” 

Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt. 

“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter. 

He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts. 

And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed. 

“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?” 

Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.

“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”  

He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.

Instead, you were pulling him in.

If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened. 

The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.

Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you. 

And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully. 

With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?” 

You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too. 

He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms. 

You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him. 

Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious. 

And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have to turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.  

He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager. 

“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small. 

While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor. 

He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.

But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.

“Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things. 

“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?” 

Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks. 

He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all. 

Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness. 

“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him. 

“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it. 

He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him. 

You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch. 

Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided. 

“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?” 

You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.

At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention. 

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 

That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence. 

“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him. 

And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics. 

You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker. 

His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out. 

“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions. 

Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed. 

When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life. 

And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.

With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him. 

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.” 

He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been. 

“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.” 

“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess. 

You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before. 

By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.

It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.  

Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation. 

And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon. 

You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet. 

Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—

“Holy shit,” you whispered. 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 

While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later. 

“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.” 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 

His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation. 

With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?” 

“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened. 

You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty. 

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.  

“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back. 

Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly. 

“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin. 

And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth. 

“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 

He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down. 

“I’m on birth control anyway.” 

“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say. 

“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”  

And while Oscar knew that he came across looser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean. 

Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.” 

“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.” 

He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder. 

“Are we really doing this?” 

He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief. 

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 

Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail. 

The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light. 

“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward. 

“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.” 

A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?” 

No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck. 

Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him. 

It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.  

He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier. 

Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you. 

“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.” 

He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears. 

He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life. 

His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use. 

“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.” 

“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.” 

Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly. 

With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high. 

Damn you and your damn eye contact. 

He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure. 

And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides. 

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 

“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips. 

“Talk to me,” he whispered. 

You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.” 

“We should probably clean up.” 

He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”

“What changed?” 

You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly. 

Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.  

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.

You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward. 

Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”

You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question. 

“If you want me to.”

His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”

_______________________________

Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight. 

When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it. 

The trophies.

You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically. 

This was about to be awful. 

“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.  

He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser. 

“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”

Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity. 

“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did. 

“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.” 

“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.” 

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps

“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smokeMarlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.” 

He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling. 

“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.” 

“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ” 

You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”

“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.” 

“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile. 

And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false. 

You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were. 

Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch. 

He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average. 

“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets. 

He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.” 

“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?” 

“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.” 

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?” 

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.” 

“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.” 

The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers. 

For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.

He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to. 

“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber. 

“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation. 

“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could. 

Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.” 

The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason. 

You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening. 

“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.” 

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 

“I’m on probation.” 

Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” 

You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.

“I’m leaving.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.

“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.” 

You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go. 

“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”

Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.

 You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.” 

“Why?” 

Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm. 

“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.” 

Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.

“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.” 

And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore. 

“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”

You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.

“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.” 

Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.

You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks. 

“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.” 

Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.

“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.” 

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”  

Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?” 

Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.” 

And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for. 

“Are you clean now?” 

“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—” 

“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.

Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his. 

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”

You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?” 

Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.” 

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 

“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”

He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking. 

And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry. 

Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from. 

As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep. 

“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?” 

“For making me stay.” 

_______________________________

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger. 

It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true. 

You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it. 

“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.” 

You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.

“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.” 

It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words. 

“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher. 

You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise. 

The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you. 

“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.” 

You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud. 

As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.

It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either. 

Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.

He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.

“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”

Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod. 

“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?” 

Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in. 

He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.  

After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight. 

“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”

Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.

“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained. 

“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little. 

Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.

“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.” 

“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.” 

“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.

“I promise.” 

When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now. 

“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck. 

“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.” 

Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt. 

“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.” 

_______________________________

Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.

Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out. 

You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.

Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.

Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?” 

A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race. 

So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services. 

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.

Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?” 

He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.

Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“He recognised you on TV?”

“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”

Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?” 

“I hope so,” you whispered. 

Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”

You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.

He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 

And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life. 

As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.

You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.” 

You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that. 

Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event. 

As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.

Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.

Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion. 

“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless. 

“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.” 

“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear. 

You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”

Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?” 

You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—” 

Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy. 

I'd like to thank Strangers by Ethel Cain, Strangers by Sarah Klang, and Stranger by Blanks for all inspiring this fic. Apparently, I really like songs about being strangers.

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Tags: @alexxavicry

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